It’s dark, he should have known, should have been able to tell Elliot’s light was missing, he could always tell, now he feels like he’s being squeezed in a vice, cold inside, no light, no direction, adrift, he hadn’t known how much he’d come to rely on Elliot’s bright and warm presence until it was gone, he closes his eyes looking for the little spark in his head that is Elliot and stays lit even when he doesn’t know where he is, and that’s gone too, it’s never been gone before.

“We’ll never find him. Look, it’s not that long until dawn. I promise as soon at it’s light I’ll have dozens of people down here scouring every inch of my land for him. It’ll be all right, he’s tough. You’ll only get yourself hurt or lost like this.” His voice is soothing, reassuring, but it only enrages London.

“No!” he yells, slamming his palm on the dresser. He’s breathing fast and shallow, his heart pounding, terror filling his mind and blockading rational thought. “I won’t wait one minute more. He could be hurt or dying or captured or—”

Dead, he might be dead, fallen off a cliff, drowned in the sea, head smashed open on a rock, stabbed by a criminal, shot accidentally by a hunter, no longer Elliot but just so much meat lying somewhere, growing cold, rotting, being fed on by foxes or ravens, never to move again or make things stop being 'Not Good' for him, how could London possibly live in a world where that could happen, he couldn’t, he’d have to leave, have to.

Suddenly he feels strong hands on his shoulders. Vincent has gripped them tightly, forcing the Consulting Criminal to be still.

“Stop.” His blue eyes are wide with compassion.

London meets Vincent’s gaze. “It’s all going grey,” he tells him, before he even knows what he’s saying. “Black and white and grey and getting darker every second. SO2. Fe2O3.”

Vincent is taken aback, but when he speaks his voice is firm and calm. “We will find him. I promise. We’ll go right away, night be damned. Okay? We’ll get him back for you. But you have to stop panicking. You’re no good to him like this.”

London snaps out of it. He nods and forces his breathing and heart rate to slow, even though to wait for another moment is agony.

“Good,” says Vincent. "We’ll find him, I swear to you.”

Vincent seems like he understands, he makes London come back to sanity, but how could he understand, he’s never had someone who was a physical requirement for existence, someone without whom the world became unbearable and non face-able in every way, if he had he’d be with them now or dead, but London is grateful for his loyalty and comfort in the moment, even if he can’t ever really know what it’s like, like being pulled apart, like being drowned, like falling into that dark alone place he was before but this time with no one to come and pull him out of it.

The Consulting Criminal hurriedly pulls on his coat and picks up the bag and the torch, ready to run out again but Vincent stops him. “Wait, we can’t just run out like this. We need a plan. And something better than stumbling around in the dark on foot.”

London halts his progress reluctantly. “Do you have any vehicle that could navigate the terrain?”

Vincent shakes his head. “Not here. Look, I am going to ring everyone who might be able to help, but I know you don’t want to wait for that. You should get going as soon as possible.”

“If not on foot, then how?” London demands, impatient.

“Well… how much of your riding lessons do you remember?”

The Consulting Criminal had had seven years of riding instruction and two more of polo, because that was what was done in his family. It was all still there, in a very dusty back corner of his hard drive – neglected but not deleted. He really ought to have gotten rid of it ages ago, but it didn’t take up much space and now it looked like it would be useful.

Vincent shows him to a stall. “Take Rose – she’s the smartest and most surefooted. But don’t push the speed, even the best horse can put a foot just as wrong as a human out there, and tonight’s bad enough already without having to put down my prize mare as well. You’ll have to tack her up, I’ll head off Linda. She’ll be having a litter of kittens over me endangering one of her charges like this.”

London nods his thanks and lets muscle memory take over to saddle and bridle the mare. He doesn’t like horses and they don’t like him, but he knows how to make them obey. He knows the exact amount of pressure, the right shifting of balance, the perfect firmness of touch and voice to get the animal to do exactly what he wants.

He was a far better rider than Alexander had been, some small satisfaction since his older brother actually loved the animals and had been dying to make the polo team at school, but he was clumsy and unsure in the saddle, at eight London had been able to make a horse do things Alexander hadn’t mastered at eighteen, too bad he’d loathed every minute he’d spent riding.

He straps Elliot’s bag behind the saddle and swings himself easily astride the increasingly nervous mare. She champs her unease but doesn’t try to unseat him. He takes the reins in one hand, holding the powerful torch with the other, and steers her with thighs and heels in the direction Elliot had left in that afternoon.

It’s faster than being on foot, but not as much as he could wish for. Even with his light the terrain is too uneven to risk a trot, although being elevated is useful for searching. He calls Elliot’s name every few moments and sweeps around with his flashlight, looking for any sign of him. He picks up Elliot’s footprints every so often, so at least he’s on the right track, but the turf is so springy and the dew so new that it’s impossible to keep his trail for long, even when it’s not too dark to make anything out.

Why did Vincent have to keep horses instead of dogs? A couple good bloodhounds, a beagle even. What kind of good English aristocrat didn’t have at least one hunting dog around the place? A horse was transport, but a decent hound could track down Elliot in minutes, no matter how dark it was. There must be someone around here with dogs, he hoped Vincent had the presence of mind to find them, wake them, and set them on Elliot’s scent.

What had possessed him to settle in the middle of nowhere like this, it was all his fault that Elliot was missing, his mystery, his remote castle with all this land, if he lived in a more civilized area Elliot could have just found a nearby called and said where he was and the Consulting Criminal would go and collect him.

The width of the area Elliot would have been covering grows larger the further out he gets from the castle, and London tries to think how Elliot would have gone about a systematic sweep of an area. He’d use his army training of course, he wouldn’t just haphazardly wander back and forth like a stray puppy. London had calculated an efficient zig-zag pattern for his area, but Elliot… no, Elliot would have plotted out a grid system. It would have taken longer, but he’d be less likely to miss something. Elliot was nothing if not thorough. Which means he would not have not gotten as far away in a straight line from the castle as London had in the same time, and certainly not further. 

It's something.

He closes his eyes and imagines how Elliot would have set up his search grid. If he’s right… he nudges the reluctant animal behind her ribs to five degrees north and twenty meters ahead. There are the footprints again, in Elliot’s sure and even stride. He blesses Elliot’s predictability and continues on, finding the trail easy to follow even when it temporarily fades, now that he’s got Elliot’s method worked out.

London urges the Andalusian to go faster and she speeds her walk but refuses to change stride. He finds the pace frustrating but can’t help but admire her talent for self-preservation. He continues to sweep the landscape with the torch, checking the ground every so often to make sure he hasn’t gotten off track, but confident now in his strategy. He calls out again and again, listening keenly for any response, a voice, a gunshot, anything.

As long as he thinks about it as a puzzle, a case, he can keep back the panic, the complete short-circuiting of his brain that happens whenever he contemplates a world in which Elliot does not exist, the idea is so unfathomable that it destroys neurons and obliterates brain cells if it's allowed to ping around inside his skull.

He’s not sure how long he continues like this, too absorbed to check his watch, but eventually he realizes he can’t be far from Elliot’s turnaround point, he wouldn’t have had time to get much further before darkness fell. In fact, Elliot should have turned around a bit earlier than this, if he had planned to get back with any light left at all.

London checks the ground around him but the footprints have disappeared. He swears and backtracks a good three minutes until he picks up where the trail diverged from his predictions. Right where Elliot most likely would have finished, suddenly the prints halt and then go off on a sharp tangent. London can tell by the length of stride that he was running here, the force of his feet hitting the ground making the prints easier to follow than before, which is fortunate now that London has no pattern to follow.

Not wanting to lose the trail, London dismounts and leads the mare behind him, keeping his eyes as close to the ground as he can manage while still jogging as quickly as is safe. Suddenly the prints disappear onto an expanse of bare rock and he pulls up short.

“Elliot!” he yells, swinging his light wildly hoping to spot something or at least allow his friend to spot him. “Are you here?!”

There’s no response, and no way to follow his trail. But to go running off like that, Elliot must have seen something, and he’d been running in a straight line. The mostly likely scenario was that he’d continued along the same trajectory. London draws the line in his head and follows it, alternating between sprinting and pausing to shout.

At last, just when his voice is growing hoarse and he’s beginning to doubt his calculations, he hears the unmistakable sound of a gun shot, muffled but not far off.

Elliot, it had to be him, who else would be shooting here at the this time of night, he was alive, he had to be, unless that was the sound of the gun that had killed him just now, when London was so close, or maybe it was just a warning, he shouldn’t call again, could attract attention, not sensible.

“Elliot!” he shouts. “Tell me where you are!” He turns his light in the direction of the sound and forces himself to scan the area methodically, but sees nothing.

“Let off another shot! I can’t triangulate your position like this!”

But there is only silence. Impatiently, he illuminates the area again, starting carefully towards it. Suddenly, he spots something. It’s a grouping of stones that seem just the slightest bit too regular to be natural – about 300 meters ahead. Old ruins? Had Elliot taken shelter there?

He drags the mare along as he runs towards the stones, and she whinnies unhappily at being made to trot after him in the dark on rocky and uneven ground.

“Shut up or I swear I’ll leave you,” he growls. It’s an idle threat and they both know it.

He calls again, this time hearing a weak response, coming unmistakably from his target. When he reaches it, he finds that it is the remains of an old, crumbling well. And at the bottom of it is Elliot. Curled on his side on the floor of it, slightly bloodied and blinking at the sudden assault of light from London’s torch, but very definitely alive.

Relief suffuses his mind, making him hyperventilate, Elliot is alive, the world still turns, the universe is operating once again under acceptable parameters, London will not have to choose between existing forever in a state of utter wrongness or not existing at all, it’s too much, he can’t understand or process the feelings that are trying to crop up, put them away for now, too much still to do, look at them later or maybe not at all.

“How did you get down there? Are you hurt?”

Elliot squints up at him. “Holmes, is that you?” he croaks. “Thank God, I thought I was imagining it. How on earth did you find me?”

“Are. You. Hurt?” London demands, ignoring Elliot's question.

“I fell and landed on my back, re-injured it a bit. It’s not serious but I can’t climb back up.”

London can see the inner surface of the well is uneven, with plenty of protruding rocks that would allow a fit man to scale it easily. He could climb down simply enough, but could he get Elliot back up it?

“Wait one moment,” he calls down, and goes to remove Elliot’s bag from the back of the horse, who is waiting patiently nearby. He rummages inside, grateful the thought of bringing a rope had occurred to him, even if he’d been thinking about cliffs rather than wells at the time. He ties one end of the rope tightly to a boulder, and loops the other end around himself, running it through the handles of the doctor’s bag as well so as to strap it to his back.

“I’m coming down,” he informs Elliot, climbing up the outside of the well and sticking the torch securely in his belt.

“No, don’t be ridiculous! I’m fine, just go get help. You’ll just end up stuck down here with me.”

“I am help,” London retorts. 

Slowly and carefully, he rappels down. He can see why Elliot would have had trouble climbing in or out – handholds are plentiful but every surface is wet and slippery, mold, slime, and moss inhabiting each crevice and outcrop. He nearly loses his footing several times on the way down. At last he reaches the bottom, untangles himself and rushes over to Elliot.

“Don’t worry, I’m okay, just don’t shine that right in my face,” Elliot tells London as he runs his eyes and hands rapidly over Elliot’s body, seeking out every injury and scratch.

Small cuts on face and hands, coccyx and lower spine with fresh bruises, ribs and vertebrae intact, ankle possibly twisted but not sprained, body temperature 32.8 degrees, into hypothermia, color.

Elliot is blue with cold and damp through, the bottom of the well being wet and moisture oozing from every crevice. London had barely noticed the chill until now – he had been too pumped up on adrenaline – but now he realizes it’s even colder than it had been the night before.

Without a word he begins to peel off Elliot’s wet jacket, jumper, and undershirt, working silently but efficiently, and taking care to mind Elliot’s injuries as much as possible.

“You know, Holmes – oww! – I really don’t think this is the time or place…” Elliot jokes halfheartedly.

London takes out the dry clothes he’d brought – blast it, why hadn’t he thought of trousers – and helps Elliot into them. Finally, he removes his coat, suppressing a shiver, and pulls it around Elliot, buttoning it tightly.

“First aid?” he asks.

Elliot shakes his head. “Nothing you can do here, a few cuts and new bruising. I can stand and move with help. I don’t know how you’re going to get me out of here. I was so stupid, I was about to turn around and head home when I would swear I saw a light in the distance. I followed it here, but there was no sign of it... I thought this well might be the entrance we were looking for so I tried to climb down for a closer look and…” he motions vaguely.

He’s got to get Elliot out of here now, even dry clothes won’t keep his temperature from declining, if he gets too weak or passes out London won’t be able to move them both, then he’ll have to go to that place of thinking of a reality with no Elliot again.

“Can you hold on to me?” London asks abruptly. “Do you have enough strength to keep a grip on my shoulders.”

“I…think so. But you can’t be serious. Not even you can climb back up that with the weight of an extra person!”

London raises an eyebrow but doesn’t answer. He grabs the bag and hurls it up over his head, out of the well, then helps Elliot to his feet and supports him as he hooks his arms under London’s and wraps his legs around his waist as tightly as he can manage. London grabs the end of the rope, making intricate loops around himself and Elliot as a makeshift safety harness.

“Ready?” he asks, and Elliot nods without conviction.

Their progress is agonizing in its slowness, as well as just plain agonizing. London finds a stable foothold, then shortens the rope. Then he finds another foothold. He repeats this over and over, carefully testing each new spot for slipperiness and lose mortar. He can feel Elliot tensed on his back, using all his strength just to hold on and try not to cry out in pain. But he can hear the sharp breathing through his teeth that means Elliot’s close to the limit of his physical tolerance.

Elliot can withstand so much pain, London can too but it’s because he doesn’t feel much of it, while Elliot feels it and bears it beyond what a person should be able to, London knows he’d lain for hours in the brutal sun with the shrapnel in him before he’d been found, dying by inches and seconds, had he thought it was happening again, that he’d been left and forgotten by London to die alone in darkness.

By the time they reach the top the Consulting Criminal’s arms and shoulders are on fire and Elliot is panting with pain and exhaustion. London hauls them over the edge back to the safe, solid ground and unties them. Then Elliot does the last thing London expects at the moment –

He starts chuckling, a rough laugh punctuated by sharp gasps, but one of real hilarity.

“Are you quite all right?”

Elliot fights to catch his breath. “I’m…fine. Did you actually… come to rescue me… riding on a fucking white horse?”

London looks at him quizzically. “Technically, she’s a grey.”

This only makes Elliot laugh harder, for reasons beyond London’s knowledge. He must be hysterical. When he’s settled down at last, London carefully puts him in the saddle and then climbs up behind him, keeping an arm firmly around Elliot’s waist.

“You’re going to freeze like that,” Elliot says. “You really should take back your coat.

“No.” London turns the mare around elegantly and sets them on a course directly back to the castle. In a straight line – as opposed to the meandering route both of them had taken to get here – it’s less than three kilometers away. Theoretically, one could see this spot from the castle on a clear day, but London had learned the hard way that the seemingly gentle and rolling landscape was littered with rills and copses and sharp dips that could conceal almost anything.

He can feel the cold of Elliot’s body seeping into him even through the thick coat, they can only go so quickly, too fast and it will injure Elliot more, what if it’s not quick enough, every minute counts, he’s found his friend but it’s not safe yet, it’s never safe, really, what they do, he risks them both every day and he knows he won’t stop, even when this is the result.

“Thank you for coming to save me.”

London nods curtly, unable to articulate any of the things running through his head. Elliot, thankfully, is not put off, and tries to keep up a one sided conversation either to keep himself awake or to reassure London that he is actually okay.

“Being saved from entrapment and certain death by a tall, dark, and handsome man riding on a white – sorry, grey – horse, who sweeps me off back to an ancient castle... all that’s missing is a dragon. I honestly can’t tell you whether this is the most romantic or the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me.”

The Consulting Criminal finally gets the reference and snickers just a tiny bit, then is surprised that he has. He allows himself to start to feel just the tiniest bit optimistic, but it’s short lived. As they approach the castle, Elliot has lapsed into unconsciousness and is colder than ever.

He decides it’s better to hurt his back more than to risk his life in the cold, and forces the horse into a canter, steering her towards the front doors.

“Open up!” London calls out. “I’ve got him!”

The massive doors swing open just as he reaches the steps and he charges up them, riding right into the hall. Vincent is there, as are the entire household staff, some police, and several other people London doesn’t recognize and has no interest in.

They made it, Elliot’s still alive, he’s going to stay that way, London won’t let that change, not now and not ever if he has anything to say about it, but he’s so cold, so dim, a weak little light, bluish, nearly impossible to make out in the brightness of the hall.

“My God,” Vincent breathes at the sight of them, going pale when he sees Elliot.

“Here, take him, quickly and be bloody careful!” London orders, and Vincent and Justin slide Elliot down and lay him on a huge oak table. “Have you called a doctor? He’s re-injured his back and he’s unconscious from hypothermia.”

London dismounts and immediately forgets about his steed, who is taken away by one of the nameless folk milling around. “Quick, we need to get him completely dry and wrapped up, he'll need fluids too, where is that bloody doctor?!”

“He’s nearly here,” Vincent promises. “We’ll put him in my room for now, it’s closest."

With the assistance of Justin, who is as strong as an ox, Vincent and London manage to get Elliot into his bedroom without too much additional jarring. London lays him on the bed and strips him, covering him with the blanket up to his neck.

“Get more blankets and something warm – soup, tea, coffee, anything!”

They obey, and London manages to spoon some hot broth into Elliot’s mouth. He’s still insensible but not so out that he can’t swallow if he’s told. The doctor arrives eventually, scowling at London still wrapped around his friend, and provides an analysis similar to London’s own earlier diagnosis, prescribing an IV of warmed saline solution, plus morphine, and some very strong pain pills for the next day. London hands these over immediately to Vincent for safekeeping and he doesn’t question why.  

What he wouldn’t give for a pill right now, to dull his senses and his nerves, raw with the state of hyper-awareness he’s been existing in since Elliot went missing, he can’t afford to drop it now, not until Elliot is out of danger and maybe not even then, but oh the relief would be so sweet.

London remains with Elliot in the bed until it’s almost light out, by which time the doctor is awake and coherent, able to keep his body temperature stable, and off the IV.

“Holmes, I just need some sleep – real sleep – and I’ll be completely fine,” Elliot tells him, even though he hasn’t said a word. “And you do too, by the way. Why don’t you go get cleaned up and have a rest? I’m okay here. Really. Don’t worry.”

Reluctantly, London goes to find a shower and fresh clothes, intending upon returning immediately to Elliot’s side. Vincent stops him in the hall.

“He’ll be okay, then?”

“Eventually,” London says grimly.

Vincent nods, relieved. “Look, I’m so sorry I brought you up here, just for some silly old rocks. What happened to Elliot… it’s not worth it. You should go home, as soon as he can travel. A couple of blocks, even this whole building, don’t matter in the grand scheme. I never thought it would lead to this. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

“I plan to send Elliot back home immediately,” London tells him. “I will stay until the case is solved.”

“It’s too dangerous, looks what’s happened already!”

“What’s happened already is why I’m not leaving until it’s finished,” London says grimly and Vincent is smart enough not to argue.

When he returns, Elliot is deeply asleep, snoring gently. London finds the snores, combined with the soft, healthy pulsing glow of warmth around him, deeply reassuring. Elliot sleeps for hours and the Consulting Criminal sits silently beside him, trying to keep his mind from going to dark places, such as what might have happened or where Vincent would have hidden the opiates.

Before he’d met Elliot he’d hardly known fear, the rare times he had it had been fear of losing or dying without an answer to a puzzle, almost never for his safety or for another’s, now he feel it on an almost daily basis, fear for Elliot, fear for himself if something happened to Elliot, fear for Elliot if something happened for him, he’d tried to suppress it, it’s dangerous, clouds his judgement, makes it more likely to get one of them killed, but he can’t seem to stop it, he’s thought about leaving Elliot for both their sake but how much worse would it be if he wasn’t there to know what was happening to him.

It’s late afternoon when Elliot wakes again and he smiles up at London. “You’re still here.”

“Yes.”

“All right?”

“I’m not the one who spent most of the night in a cold, damp well after falling six meters on to stone.”

Elliot frowns. “You know what I mean.”

London closes his eyes, wishing Elliot’s concern would go away.

He doesn’t answer.

“Hey, you have to talk to me. Remember? We agreed on it. You can’t do that thing anymore.”

London looks away from Elliot, unable to stand seeing his eyes right now. “You were… lost…” he says finally.

“Yes, and you found me. We always find each other, right?”

London nods uncertainly. “But you were lost. Really lost. I couldn’t see you at all.”

Elliot lets out a long breath. “Not at all? And you thought I was…?”

“Yes. It’s never been like that before. I thought of all the ways it could have happened, what would it be like, how long I could bear it before…”

He trails off, knowing that finishing that sentence would be very 'Not Good', but Elliot seems to have figured it out anyway and gasps.

“No. You have to promise me that no matter what happens to me you won’t do that!”

“I can’t promise you that.” He finally looks at his friend, whose eyes are nearly grey with exhaustion and wide with worry. “I would if I could, but I… I’m not being sentimental. But the thought of long-term survival in such a scenario make an unsolvable equation. I can promise to try, to exist with the irrationality for as long possible, but that’s…that’s all I can do.”

It’s not like he’d plan it, hang himself from a rafter or throw himself into the Thames, it would just happen, somehow, it was as inevitable as gravity, his foot would slip on a rooftop chase, an experiment would explode in his face, he’d lose a knife fight, and it would be over and he’d be grateful.

Elliot inhales slowly and deeply, forcing himself not to argue right now. “Well, then I guess I have an incentive to take care of myself,” he says at last, voice quavering just a bit.

London nods again but doesn’t say anything, still stiff in his chair.

“This isn’t your fault. I chose this. This is what we do. You and me against the rest of the world."

Slowly the tension drains out of him, his stiff posture relaxing into weariness, his emotionless mask slipping to allow Elliot to see the barest remnants of his fear and confusion. For a moment, he sees himself reflected in Elliot’s eyes and is surprised that he looks more lost than Elliot had seemed during the whole ordeal.

“Thank you” he tells Elliot in barely a whisper.

“You're welcome. And I shouldn’t have run after a ghost like that, not when it was dark and I didn’t know the ground, without a light or a way to tell you where I’d gone. It was foolish. I’m sorry.”

London swallows and pulls himself together, straightening his clothes. “How’s your back?”

No more thinking about the end right now, it has all come out right, that’s only thing that matters, isn’t it?

“It hurts,” Elliot admits. “But not like the first time. I think I can probably walk with a little help. Do you mind? I don’t want to get too accustomed to laying about.”

London helps him sit up and swing his legs off the bed, then sits beside and puts an arm around him. Elliot winces audibly when pulled to his feet, but finds his balance and limps along next to London in a slow circuit of the room.

“There? See? It’s not so bad. I mean, it hurts, but it gets easier once I’m moving. Here, let me try on my own for a moment. Ahhh, okay…ouch…”

Elliot balances on his own and takes a few halting steps. London can see how much pain he’s in, despite his falsely cheerful grin – which he may have learnt from the Consulting Criminal himself – and has to physically restrain himself from assisting. Elliot hobbles around for a few moments and his steps improve until he’s walking almost normally, if not without extreme discomfort.

“Aaaand… I think we’re done for now,” he says at last, collapsing gingerly back onto the bed. “Now, what does an injured man have to do to get some proper dinner around here?”

No sooner had the question left Elliot's mouth, Vincent brought in a tray for Elliot, as well as food for himself and London. The Consulting Criminal can feel the guilt pouring off him around Elliot, but he tries not to show it and remains, on the surface, his ebullient self. He excuses himself after eating, leaving London and Elliot alone again. It’s getting late, but Elliot’s not sleepy. He does another few laps around the room unassisted, stronger this time, claiming he doesn’t want to stiffen up, and then lets London read to him until it starts to once again grow dark.

“Do you think they’ll strike tonight?” Elliot asks quietly. “It’s overcast again.”

London shrugs. “If so, we have no way of stopping them. I’ll have to reformulate the plan again. Can you tell me anything about the light you saw, where it might have gone?”

Elliot shakes his head. “I would swear it disappeared right where the well was. But when I got there, there was nothing down there and at the bottom… you saw how it was. No entrances, nothing. Maybe it was just nothing... it was kind of marshy over there.”

“Perhaps…” London mutters. Something’s not right. Elliot opens his mouth but London shushes him, shutting his eyes tight and putting his hands to his head.

He’s at the bottom of the well, without Elliot this time, reconstructed perfectly in three dimensions from the random sweeps of his light last night, each stone and crack crystal clear, he scans around himself, high and low, the floor, the walls... 

The masonry…

Suddenly it jumps out at him in high definition and he gasps, yanked out of his mind palace suddenly back to the room, Elliot staring at him with fascination that should still not be possible.

“You’ve got it, haven’t you?” Elliot asks. He throws back the covers and struggles out of bed. “Okay. Just let me get some proper clothes on, then we can leave right away!”

London frowns. “You’re not coming.”

Elliot snorts, fumbling for his shirt. “Then you are not going!”

“How exactly do you plan to stop me?”

“I’ll tell Vincent. See how far you get on your own then. If you want to do this without interference, then you’re bringing me with you.”

“You can’t help me,” London says cruelly. “You’ll only slow me down.”

Elliot is unaffected. “All the more reason to start at once. Unless you think you’ll go faster once Vincent calls the police and has them muck about around all your evidence.” He sighs. “If we’ve learned anything, I think it’s that bad things happen when one of us goes running off on a lead alone.”

London acquiesces with severe bad grace. Once they are both bundled up and armed, they slink out through the kitchen exit, using Vincent’s secret pantry passage to avoid any questions, and London sets them on a course right back towards the well.

“You’re not serious!” Elliot exclaimed. “You saw that place. There’s nothing there.”

“Nothing indeed.” London tries to remember to maintain a slow pace for Elliot’s sake, but the lure of the answer is too strong and he continually speeds up without realizing. Elliot keeps up shockingly well, even considering the larger-than-recommended dose of oxycodone he swallowed before they left. London wouldn’t have thought he’d even be conscious after that, but isn’t surprised he’s managing to ignore his pain.  

He’ll pay for it later, London knows from experience, but it’s worth it to Elliot, he won’t be left behind, the Consulting Criminal would have done the same, Elliot’s earned the right to be here even if it will make things ten times worse for him in the morning.

When they reach the well, there is something hanging off it.

“A chain ladder… I’ll be buggered!” Elliot exclaims.

“Elementary. I saw the marks on the edge from its hooks when we climbed out, fresh scratches. There was other evidence too, I just didn’t have time to process it immediately.”

They climb down into the well, Elliot biting his lip the whole way. With the exception of the ladder it looks exactly the same as their previous visit.

“Now what?”

London waves him quiet and begins methodically examining the protruding stones of the wall at chest level. He’s about three quarters of the way around when he cries, “Yes! I knew it! Completely clean of slime and algae. It’s been touched repeatedly and recently.” He pushes down on the stone like a lever and a crack appears in the wall. A little door, only about a meter high.

“Okay, that was impressive,” Elliot admits. “I can’t believe you noticed all that. Especially considering…”

London straightens at the praise and feels that finally, all is right again. “After you,” he says, pushing the door open all the way and motioning Elliot through ahead of him.

They find themselves in a packed dirt tunnel, with both wood and stone supports, just tall enough for Elliot to stand straight. London has to nearly fold himself in half to duck.

“So you think this goes…all the way back to the castle?”

“It must. Perhaps it was built as an escape for inhabitants in case of a siege. They wouldn’t want to come out where their enemies could still see them or it would be useless. In any case, it’s being put to a different use now. We follow this…”

“…we find our thieves,” Elliot finishes. He grins at London. “Glad my misadventure ended up being useful.”

Useful, if there was one thing Elliot always managed to be it was useful, even when London grumbles about his lack of intellect, his slowness, he still manages to be the epitome of usefulness, at least for London’s purposes.

“Indeed,” London agrees. “We must be as silent as possible, if we are to get the advantage. We’ll have to turn off the torches too and go by feel.”

Elliot rummages in his pocket. “Here, we can use this to help see a little.” He hands London a little key-chain that, when pressed, emits a low green light for the purposes of helping one find the keyhole in a door at night.

London creeps forward, almost inhumanly quiet and Elliot follows, behind and on the other side of the tunnel. It seems like they are underground for hours, although in reality it is only about thirty minutes, before they glimpse a light in the distance.

“That must be the chamber under the foundation, where they’re working,” Elliot whispers. They slink more carefully now, flattening themselves as much as possible against the walls of the tunnel. They pause at the entrance to the lighted room, both straining for any sound and not hearing anything. At last, weapons drawn, they carefully enter, blinking both at the light and at the scene before them.

The chamber is cavernous, but oddly shaped. There is a wall before them that seems to be at least part of the underground foundations of Corvin castle. There are strange pipes and tools every where, and the chamber stretches away from them in either direction at a ninety-degree angle.

“We must be under the northeast corner,” London whispers. “Look above us…those are the stones that make up the outer side of the foundation. This chamber undercuts it, while leaving enough to keep the building stable. The outer stones bear almost no weight. Brilliant. And there, see? Our missing property.”

London had expected a primitive job, based on brute strength and maybe some simple levers, but he was seeing a sophisticated set-up here, no mere henchmen, a bright mind had planned and executed this, he hoped to meet this person, he or she was worthy at least of a conversation.

There is one of the missing foundation stones a few meters beyond them, and they approach it carefully. “Look, hydraulics… that’s how they’ve been moving them so quietly. Ahh, see here we are…” On the top of the stone there is a hole, about eight centimeters in diameter, drilled deep into the block. London shines his torch down there. “Whatever was in there has already been removed. But someone’s been here tonight, and unless they left the lights on and forgot their ladder, they either still are or are coming back soon. We should search, try to locate the other missing stones, and if we find nothing, hide until their return.”

Elliot agrees but no sooner have they set foot down the left passage of the chamber, what would be the eastern wall of the castle, than they hear a click behind them and freeze.

“None o’ that will be necessary,” a gruff voice says. “Now, you boys should put your nice guns down very slowly and kick them away. I would hate to cause trouble by killing guests of Sir Vincent, but I will if I have to.”

London puts his hands up and allows himself a small smile. “Mr. McKeller. I can’t say you were the man I expected to find down here.”

He slowly sets down his gun and kicks it out of reach, as instructed. Elliot follows suit.

Elliot is wound tight, smoldering besides him, London can see him estimating exactly what his chances of taking the former sailor out are, he’d probably have a good shot at if London caused a diversion, but that’s not how he wants things to happen tonight and Elliot’s still injured, not working at peak strength by far, London thinks they can talk the man down.

He gives his head a barely perceptible shake and mouths “not yet” at his friend, who backs down minutely. They turn slowly to see the burly farmer with a rifle, sweating profusely.

“You know, there’s two of us and one of you,” The Consulting Criminal observes dispassionately. “And we are quite a bit younger. Even with you armed, there’s a fair chance we could take you down before you could shoot us both. Perhaps before you could even shoot one of us.”

McKeller shifts nervously and tightens his grip on the weapon. “Not that I’m bothered by it, but I seen you two together – I don’t think either of you are goin’ to risk that. Now, stand closer together so’s I can keep an eye on both of you,” he orders.

They do as told, London watching the man carefully. He’s desperate, but he’s not a killer, not at heart, although he’s scared enough that anything could happen.

“I’m really very impressed, Mr. McKeller,” London says smoothly. “It’s an unusually clever plan. I had assumed that this was the work of several men, a crime ring even…but you pulled it all by yourself, didn’t you? You built a portable hydraulic system to trigger the trapdoor stones, lower down the foundation blocks, and seal it all up behind you. You didn’t need strength, you had brains.”

He didn’t look like he had brains at all, it’s always pleasant to have someone surprise him like that, proof that the human race is not entirely cause for despair, still, continuing once the case had come to London’s attention had been foolish, revisiting the site when he knew people were out searching, would see his light, that was sloppy, disappointing, emotion was running the show now.

“And thirty years of experience with hydraulic machinery, and some amateur masonry.” He’s still sweating, but he looks pleased at the recognition.

“I just have one question,” London tells him.

“Oh, just one?” Elliot hisses.

“What was in those stones?”

“Nothing for you to be concerned about,” McKeller snaps.

“It’s war spoils, isn’t it? Your grandfather brought it back and hid it here until it would be safe to sell. You said you were here…what was it, trying to keep up the ‘family legacy’? You meant recover and sell illegal artifacts to fund your comfortable retirement.”

“You’d never understand. And it doesn’t matter. I just have one more cache to remove, then I’ll have everything and no one around here will ever see me again. You can tell Sir Victor I’m sorry for what I done to his house – I would have put them all back, but my system wasn’t powerful enough to lift them to back up, only to ease them down. I was planning to fix it, to make it right, but then you two turned up and I was out of time.”

“So there’s still one more stone with treasure in it?” Elliot pipes up. “How are you going to manage that, then?”

“What?”

“Well, what are you going to do with us? Let us go and we’ll run call the police. Even if you escape you won’t ever get back in here.”

“I’ll tie you up,” he says uncertainly, glancing back and forth from Elliot to London. “I’ll call to tell someone where you are once I’m clear.”

“Ahh, but if you’re tying us up, who’s holding the gun? You’re only other option is to shoot us. And I don’t think you’re up for that, not really. I know what a murderer looks like, and you aren’t it. Come on now… put down the gun and we won’t say anything about it. You can come with us and we’ll all explain to the police together, all right?”

Elliot is inching towards McKeller in his most harmless, appeasing posture. London doesn’t like it, McKeller is under too much stress to be predictable, but Elliot’s done this before.

Elliot knows how to talk to people, how to soothe them, his bedside manner impeccable, he might just be able to hypnotize the gun away from him, he’d certainly got London to do plenty of things he never intended without quite noticing until he’d already done them.

“That’s right. We don’t want anyone to get hurt…”

The man’s resolve seems to be wavering and he starts, slowly, to lower the barrel of the rifle. But then Elliot takes one more step and he panics.“Get back!” he shouts and Elliot takes a step away from him, hands up again. “Stay still, don’t try anything… I just need to think, let me think!”

“There’s no other way out,” London tells him. “You’re only making it worse for yourself. We can still pretend this never happened.”

“No, I can’t believe you!” He’s breathing heavily now, hands shaking but his aim would still be sure at such close range. “I’ll just… I’ll just have to shoot you both, just to keep you here, I’m sorry about it, I’ll try not to hurt you too much, but you don’t understand what this means to me. I have no choice.”

He points the rifle at the Consulting Criminal’s foot and London can feel Elliot ready to spring next to him, coiled and humming with energy. If McKeller pulled that trigger he wouldn’t have a chance to do anything else before Elliot got to him, and that would be very unfortunate for him. Before either of them can make a move, a bullet whistles past McKeller's head and embeds itself in the earth of the chamber wall behind him

“No one’s shooting anyone if I have a say in it,” says Vincent, as he steps out of the darkness of the tunnel that had brought them, holding an antique pistol. “Angus, give me the gun. I know you’re upset, but you are not going to hurt my friends. And I don’t think you’d like having to live with yourself if you did. You’re not that kind of man.”

Vincent must have followed them, he’s smarter than London had given him credit for, he ought to be annoyed with him, but given the circumstances it prevents a rather messy conclusion, the Consulting Criminal’s not afraid of a bullet wound, he’s had many, but it is inconvenient and puts a damper on his work, which he hates.

Vincent walks slowly up to McKeller. “You don’t know what kind of man I am,” he wails, looking increasingly trapped and frightened.

“Yes, I do.” Vincent’s voice is steady and warm. “I’ve seen you at church, you always help set up the tables for coffee hour and you volunteer to clean the chapel once a mouth. You always polish the rails even though you don’t have to. Last week you towed Mrs. Hart’s car out of the ditch and all the way home, and you patched her tire. You’re gentle with your animals, and you always send along something to anyone who gives you farming advice. You’re not the kind of man who would steal another man’s property or endanger lives or hurt people on purpose. So why ever you’re doing this, I’m sure you have good reason, and I’m prepared to listen to it if you’re prepared to help me to do that. Okay?”

By now Vincent is within arms’ reach of McKeller. He holds out his hand sternly and after a long, tense pause, McKeller hands over his rifle and sinks to the floor. The three other men let out long breaths. Vincent tosses the weapon to Elliot, who unloads it and retrieves his and London’s sidearms from the floor.

He’d known Vincent could talk almost anyone into anything, but this was a new level, he’d be impressed if he wasn’t irritated not to have been able to finish things himself, still at least now they could get to the bottom of things without any hospital trips.

“All right now, why don’t we all put our guns away and we can talk like civilized people,” Vincent says. London rolls his eyes, but Elliot helps McKeller up and guides him to sit on the nearest block.

“Would you rather tell us your story now, or wait until you’re at the station?” London demands.  

McKeller shrinks back from him a bit, but nods. He bears the attitude of a defeated man. “Yes, sir. I am sorry I tried to… I wasn’t myself. Haven’t been really.”

London raises an eyebrow and taps a foot impatiently.

McKeller clears his throat. “Well, it starts with my grandparents, as you rightly guessed. My grandfather’s ancestors had farmed the land around Corvin Castle for decades, maybe centuries. When he was young he joined the army, trekked around Europe and eventually came home to take over the farm with a young bride, my grandmother. They weren’t married too long before the Crimean War began, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was conscripted, along with his brothers and most other young men in the area. My grandmother feared what would happen to her when he was gone. She knew being a German Jew living alone wasn’t safe in that political climate, and the locals already mistrusted her.

“She begged my grandfather to help her hide her most treasured possessions, everything of value she’d brought over from the old country. He thought she was crazy, but he loved her. So he got his brothers to help him – Corvin Castle was already abandoned then, after the east tower toppled, but he knew about the passageway, and knew about the hollowed out stones a Scottish owner had installed hundreds of years before to keep his wealth from the British. Of course they had to pry the stones out with just crowbars and muscle, but they were strong lads. They hid what my grandmother gave them, where no one would ever guess, not even if they turned this place upside down.

“My grandmother’s premonition was right. Once her husband was gone and the War was going badly, suspicion fell on her that she was a spy. Or a witch. Depending on who you asked. I don't think she spoke much English, which only deepened the conflict. She became fearful and rarely came out of their home. She had a little girl, and rumors started that she must be mistreating her, starving her, that she planned to steal her from my grandfather and raise her as a Jew, all sorts of lies. Hysteria was running high, particularly so close to the coast, people expected a invasion any moment."

“A mob formed. They planned to scare her and take the baby to be kept by a proper Christian family until someone else from my grandfather’s side came back. But things got out of hand. She barricaded the house, but eventually the townspeople got in. There was pushing and shoving and rough words. They took the baby and somehow a fire started. My grandmother wouldn’t leave the house, she was too distraught, and she burnt to death.”

The Consulting Criminal’s history was spotty except in a few highly specific areas, but Elliot was nodding thoughtfully as he was somewhat obsessed with military history, the timeline at least must fit, did he have any reason to lie about it now, no he’s done, he’s given up now, London can see it in his eyes, any deceit he’d had is gone, he’s in their power completely.

McKeller continues. “Soon after, word came that my grandfather and his brothers had all been killed. My mother ended up in an orphanage. She never knew a word of this, and died herself before I was out of school.”

“Then how do you know all this?” London asked. “That’s a lot of detail for something that happened before you were born.”

McKeller shook his head. “It was like a miracle. About twenty years ago, the orphanage my mother grew up in was shut for good. The attic must have been full of the things kids had come in with, and there was a box of my mothers things – they had been stored when she came as an infant and then forgotten – she’d never seen them. Some kind person had taken it upon themselves to track down the all the grown children or their living relatives and return the items to them.

“My mother’s box had baby clothes, a few handmade toys, and some letters my grandmother had written to my mother regarding where her possessions had been hidden. Before the house burned down, she’d tossed a bundle of things for my mother out the door, which included those letters. They were in Yiddish, of course, but I had them translated and then I managed to track down the rest of the story in local archives and by asking around, former orphanage employees, locals here, that sort of thing."

“I wanted to desperately to get my grandmother’s treasures back, but from the description I knew I’d need a lot of help or a lot of equipment, and a reason to be around the place. It took time to get together what I needed and save up enough money to rent out a farm on the land and make a credible go of it. Finally, when I heard the castle has been sold, I knew it was my chance. It took two years to find the tunnel and outfit the chamber so I could get the blocks out myself, and I thought I’d be done months ago, put them back and be gone before anyone knew what had happened, but I had equipment problems and things dragged out and then you two came up and I started to panic…” He put his head in his hands.

“This is all very touching,” London says. “Fascinating story, really. But, what, exactly, were these treasures that were worth so much?”

How much wealth would a foreign bride have brought with her, if she was marrying a poor English farmer, couldn’t have been that much, from McKeller’s story she sounded comparable in class to her husband, perhaps they were things that would be very valuable now, antiques and handiwork that could be sold, that must be it, knickknacks would hardly be worth the effort he’d gone to.

McKeller reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thick envelope, handing it to London. “This isn’t all of it, but it’s what I found in the last stone. The rest are like them.”

London reaches into the envelope and pulls out… nothing. Well, not nothing, but no jewels or money or anything he’d anticipated. There were journal entries. Letters. A few black and white photos of dour-looking individuals. A hairpin, a signet ring, neither expensive or particularly well made. A piece of paper containing what looked like a family tree.

“What is this?” he demands.

“It’s… my history. My family records from my grandmother’s side. Genealogies, pictures, correspondence from all her relatives. Everything she had that tied her back to her home.”

The Consulting Criminal is incredulous, and Vincent and Elliot look scarcely less so. “Let me see if I understand. You spent years of your life, thousands and thousands of pounds, all your energy, to create an elaborate cover and a highly technical system of mechanisms, even being willing to shoot and injure two people to recover… letters? Paperwork? This is your treasure?”

McKeller sighs, looking old suddenly, but he meets London’s gaze almost fiercely despite his seeming level of brokenness. “Mr. Holmes, do you know what it’s like to have no one? No people at all?”

London opens his mouth to say of course he does, but stops himself.

He likes to think he does, that he's an island unto himself, but it’s not true, he’s got Alexander and although they have a unique and complicated relationship with each other, they are still family and imagining a reality in which there had never been his older brother was simply not possible even if it sounds rather pleasant, he’d got other relations too, he never spoke to them but that isn’t the same as not having any, and Elliot, of course there is Elliot, he is his family, even if he had no one else ever, he still has people if he has Elliot.

“No…” he says at last.

There is a silence, then Vincent clears his throat. “I know what it’s like, Angus.”

The farmer looks at him in gratitude. “My mother’s dead, I don’t have an extended family, never met my father and from what I hear I’m lucky about that. I got no wife nor children, no siblings. It’s just me. And when I die that’ll be done with. I thought if I could find my grandmother’s things I could find my family, on the continent or wherever they scattered to. Find out who I was, be a part of something. Have people who knew I existed and remembered me when I died. I didn’t care how much money or time it cost, it’s the only thing that mattered in the end.”

“And that’s…all there is to it?” London points out.

“That’s it. I was going to put everything back as soon as I could, wrap up my business on the farm, and then go try and find my German family, learn what it means to be Jewish after all this time, maybe go to Israel... But now…” he puts his head in his hands. “…now it’s all for nothing.”

“Well, Vincent,” London says brightly, rubbing his hands together. “You have your answer. I was certain from the beginning that there had to be something important hidden inside of them, although I can’t say I expected…this. In any case, have you called the police or shall we take him back with us now and call them?”

“Holmes,” Elliot whispers angrily, flicking his eyes at the despairing figure before them. “Sympathy!”

Sympathy for what, for a foolish man who’s wasted his life looking for something that likely he will never find, spent all his resources on a silly dream, he did cut a pathetic figure but it was his own fault, why do Vincent and Elliot seem so affected by his story.

He gives Elliot a blank look, but Vincent is talking.

“Angus, what I don’t understand is why you didn’t just come to me in the first place?” He sounds disappointed. “I would have allowed to you retrieve your property as long as it didn’t cause permanent damage, of course I would have. I would have helped! I spend all my time researching this history of this area – you don’t think I would have loved a story like that?”

McKeller dips his head even further. “I’m sorry, sir… I never thought… I mean they were in your home and it seemed like so much to ask, and if you’d said no…I’d never have another chance.

Vincent nods. “All right. Well, I don’t think the police are going to be necessary, at least on my part. Now, if Mr Holmes or Elliot wants to press charges for your threatening them, I’m not going to stop them… but as long everything gets put back the way it was, I have no argument with you.”

He looks to Elliot and London. London opens his mouth but Elliot cuts in first. “No, we’re… we’re not going to pursue anything. Are we Holmes?”

London reluctantly shakes his head. “No. But only because you never pulled that trigger.”

McKeller looks overwhelmed. “Thank you…thank you, Sir Vincent, thank you two… I am so sorry… I never meant to… You’re all very kind…”

Vincent is kind, Elliot is kind, London is baffled, but they do have a point, there’s no real reason to have him put away, he didn’t actually hurt anyone and he’s not going to re-offend unless he’s got family record stashed in another historic building, still Vincent ought to be angrier over the damage to his property and difficulty it’s all caused but that’s none of London’s affair, he supposes.

“It’s all right,” Vincent assures him magnanimously. “We’ll get you the rest of your things and perhaps when you’re done using them to find your family, you’ll allow me to display some of them in the little museum I’m planning, along with a bit of your family story? It’s an important part of Corvin Castle’s legacy. London, why don’t you and Elliot go back? I’d like to talk with Angus and help him with his last extraction. I’m curious to see how it works, and I’m sure Elliot could use a rest.”

“I could do, at that,” Elliot admits, which means the pain is really bad again, and London agrees.

“Too bad whatever passage between the castle and down here that existed is blocked up,” Elliot comments as they trudge back down the tunnel.“I can’t say I fancy walking, what, six, seven kilometers, to reach a place that is basically right above my head.”

“Mmm…” London mumbles, lost in thought.

“Something bothering you?”

“Everything about this bothers me. McKeller’s story was obviously true, but it doesn’t make any sense. So much effort for so small a thing, he doesn’t even have any guarantee he’ll find his people, or if he does that they will be interested in knowing him. The risk/reward ratio is completely off. And Vincent… all the expense and the trouble this had caused him. He just waved it off like it didn’t matter. Sentiment, again?”

“Something like that. Look, neither of us talk much about our pasts and our families, even to each other, right? Even after a year, even after we became…us… We still don’t often delve too deeply. And we have reasons, don't we?”

It’s true, there’s a lot he doesn’t know about Elliot, he’s deduced some and could find out the rest if he tried, sometimes Elliot shares things unexpectedly, but he doesn’t like to think too much about Elliot-before-London, that person was different, that person wasn’t his friend, it made him think of how things might have been different, if Elliot had never joined the army, if he had died of his wounds, if Elliot had never been wounded and not come home, it did not rest easy in his mind, just like contemplating where he had nearly ended up, how close he’d come to.

“It doesn’t matter what came before, Elliot. This is what matters, now.”

“I agree, mostly,” Elliot says. “But we know. We know who were are and who our parents and grandparents were and who we came from. We might ignore it or regret or loathe it, but we know. Can you imagine having a mystery like that and living it with it for years with no hope, and then suddenly finding out everything you need is with arm’s reach?”

When put that way, it does make sense to the Consulting Criminal.

It would be torment, complete torment, not that he’d actually want to have anything to do with any family he might discover, but not knowing would be unacceptable, it would have to be solved before he could tend to anything else.

“And Vincent… he also has no family, so he’s sympathetic to McKeller’s plight.”

“Exactly. It must be even worse for him, really, because he thought he knew who he was for a long time and then suddenly he didn’t any more. I’m sure he’d do anything to get that back, but the closest he can manage is helping out McKeller.”

“You feel for him too?”

Maybe this is why Vincent clings so stubbornly to his faith, he said he liked to feel like he was a part of something, he had no people so the church gave him a simulacrum of family, McKeller had joined the navy for the same reason, he guessed, even Elliot’s entry into the army had been a means of gaining connection, London doesn’t understand that need, he doesn’t want to be a part of something bigger, he prefers to be the something bigger himself, which is what had drawn Elliot and Vincent to him to begin with.

“I do,” Elliot admits. “He didn’t mean any harm. And you have to agree, it’s rather nice.”

“What is?”

“Solving a case where everyone lives and there’s not actually a bad guy. Vincent has his answer, and a new compatriot, we both got one hell of a chase out of it, and McKeller is going to find his past. It’s a good day, Holmes,” Elliot declares, slapping him on the back.

The sun is starting to come up over the ocean.

“I suppose it was, but we are getting the first train out of here tomorrow.” London quietly replies.