A week later everything seemed to be returning to normality. Elliot little by little forget about the menacing fire that had almost claimed his life. The former cuts on his arms faded until only white scars remained, and he no longer winced when he took a shower and felt the water pour over his tender back. He was keen on getting back his stability and so, he took short promenades every day until his ankle no longer failed him.

It also seemed that the Consulting Criminal had made peace with the situation he found himself in. Instead of complaining and sulking, he read the books Carlton left for him, phoned Inspector Cruz almost obsessively and carried on with his experiments.

One day Elliot had come back to find an ominous stench in the kitchen. London had made himself at home by slowly boiling something awful on the stove. Elliot hadn't dared ask him what he put in the pot but had instead announced that he had gotten his sense of smell back. A corner on London's mouth had twitched upwards but then Elliot had left him to deal with his experiment in peace.

"Moving on to Major Patrick Jones then. Should I or you make the call?" London asked briskly as he dialed the number on the phone in the living room.

During the last few days they had contacted the men who had served with Elliot after the generous colonel had sent the requested files with the men's personal records, and personally phoned Elliot to inquire how he was doing after the famous bullet in the shoulder.

Elliot quickly reached out his hand and gently tugged the phone from London's grip. "I think it's best if I talk this time. We should stick to the prepared questions and not pretend to be a salesman. Why did you do that to poor Billy?"

London shrugged and flippantly studied his hands. "People tend to let down their guard when encountering a person who normally is a part of their everyday life. It was the perfect cover; I actually managed to deduce things from his behavior while trying to sell a smoke detector. He isn't the man we're looking for."

"You said his family could be in danger if he didn't accept your offer! No wonder he hung up after shouting curses even I could hear."

London tsked and gestured with his hand. "Well then. Be my guest. Let's see what you can find out by interrogating this Major."

Major Jones' wife picked up the phone and told Elliot that her husband was back in the field. Elliot asked her to tell him that he said hello and ended the conversation.

"Nope, he's back in the field."

"We'll put him on the list with the others who have returned. But I won't write him off until we have talked to him personally. It is after all quite possible to direct crimes from a distance," London muttered and moved the Major's name to another list he had made.

"You're unusually determined about this despite neither we nor Cruz's people have found anything interesting, and the fact that this is all paperwork and has not involved any running around the City," Elliot pointed out before he took a sip of his tea.

"The devil is in the details, my good man. I would not underestimate the importance of scrutiny when the risk is so high."

"What risk?" Elliot asked with confusion in his voice.

"You, of course. Need I remind you that you nearly died and I will find the one responsible for it," London said with sudden sharpness that shut Elliot up and reminded him of the fierce loyalty the Consulting Criminal possessed.

He returned to his tea while London took the phone from him and found the number to the next person on the long list.

Later that evening, Elliot caught London in the hallway with his heavy coat and gloves on.

"Where are you going?" Elliot let out and watched how London with elegant movements wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"I'm only going to pick up something at King's Cross. It's got nothing to do with the case."

At first Elliot felt disappointed that London would not tell him. Then he grew curious at what he was referring to, but by the time London unlocked the door he had become suspicious.

"You're not going to secretly hunt down some poor vet and question him in person? Because those blokes are my friends and I know you've barely left here since we moved in. You're getting restless."

"No, I do not intend to harass soldiers. Yet, anyway; we're not finished with the entire list. And you know I'll share any new development in this case with you since it does concern you especially. This trip is purely private business," London explained before he slipped through the door.

Elliot absently closed the door behind him, went into his own bedroom, and drew the navy curtains so he wouldn't be disturbed too early the next morning by sunlight shining on his white walls. 

Autumn was in the air. A chilling, penetrating breeze went through the busy street so London promptly raised the collar of his coat. He admitted he felt better than usual, warmer which he without doubt had the Indian take-away to thank for. Usually he didn't eat while on a case but he argued with himself that at the present the case was hardly hot, so he could have a meal now and then. But he was getting worried by the lack of results from his and Elliot's research.

A woman with too many shopping bags bumped into him and he resisted shoving her back, though he did become less considerate of the other walkers around him and didn't care when elbows or feet came in his way.

'No! I will not ignore this case!' he thought, angered by his own failing faith. All around him, people began to dismiss the fire when no more evidence was found. Cruz had nothing, the lab still hadn't given the dog tag back, but they had told London that something else could have happened that made the other tag disappear. And since London wasn't even hundred percent sure that Elliot's tags had been gone from the flat, it was natural the case lost more importance.

What annoyed London further was that he, compared to Scotland Yard, was certain the fire hadn't been an accident. Though he was troubled that nothing more had happened in the past week. Not that he wanted anything horrible to happen to Elliot, but he had expected something. Anything. A lost item or DNA in one of the rooms at Baker Street, people following Elliot on their daily walks, and yes, London had made sure some of his friends among the underground network were tracking Elliot from a distance, when he went out alone, just in case.

Furthermore, no unexplained crimes in London had been reported to the police. But criminals always made mistakes. Somewhere in the course of events or the chain of criminals, something or someone always gave.

London stepped inside the grandiose King's Cross station and sneered at the never-ending throng of people hustling in the stiffing heat with their bags. He began the challenge of making his way through to get to the desk for the luggage storage.

Soon he too carried a black bag, though he was fairly confident what rested in his bag was far more valuable than what ten persons in here had together. He thought of the vault inside the bag which hid many things no-one besides him knew of, not even Elliot.

Photographs from his childhood that he rarely looked at and yet found impossible to throw away, letters and Christmas cards from various family members that also had manipulated his sharp brain into keeping something so sentimental. There was also a few items that his mother owned that he had managed to take before his father got a hold of them. He had stored important documents in the vault, too, and a lot of money in different currencies such as pound, euro and dollar and prepared visas and identification papers for foreign countries if an emergency happened.

As London marched for the exit he suddenly heard steady steps behind him. He sighed in a bored tone and said out loud while keeping his eyes trained on the entrance to the station, "Don't you have anything better to do than stalking me, father?"

A sound of shifting fabric was heard and then Carlton wandered around to face his son. He wore a brown trench coat made of thick wool, a crisp shirt, and on his black tie a pin with the British flag. He also had gloves that were a shade darker than his coat.

"Really, your immense paranoia continues to amaze me," Carlton drawled out before he lowered his gaze, indicating the burden in London's hand."Pray tell, what is that you're trying to disguise with a ghastly bag?"

London lifted an eyebrow and was not fooled by Carlton's attempt to change the subject. He too could dominate their banter.

"My old teddy bear, of course. He's been out in the world for a while. Quite the little explorer," he said and watched how red spots tinged Carlton's cheeks. London smiled smugly; he had begun to irritate his father.

"How's the accommodation I'm paying for?" Carlton retorted but London didn't even blink before he answered, "Still habitable. Though the bugging device certainly was an unusual house warming present."

"Oh dear, I guess one of my men left it there by accident," Carlton mumbled to himself, a coy act the Consulting Criminal saw through immediately.

"Why are you here?" The man opposite rubbed his gloved hands together and for only a second his observant eyes darted to the large board behind London which made him raise an eyebrow.

"I apologize if you're feeling offended, but I'm not here to see you. I'm waiting for a train arriving with a dear colleague. It's very important I greet him, what with the impending meeting for…" Carlton paused and shot him an amused look. "Well, it doesn't matter to you now, does it? Not when you're using every power to make a case out of this accident."

The last sentence momentarily threw London off the track. He quickly leaned towards the other man and hissed silently, aware of curious people who could be concealed in large crowds, "You don't believe me either?"

Carlton sighed and scanned him with his ever perceiving gaze. "Oh I know better than to doubt your deduction skills. But this time... Nothing more has happened. Perhaps the fire had a perfectly logical answer behind it which is yet veiled to us all. All kinds of people could have entered your residence and decided to, as they say, mess with it. Teenagers, pyromaniacs, drug addicts. Wanted to entertain themselves, or weren't in their right mind. Sound familiar?"

Carlton's voice died out and London furiously clamped his hand around the strap to the heavy bag. He knew exactly what his father was talking about with his "Sound familiar" remark and it wasn't in regards to the recently burned checks.

"I don't think that and I'm going to prove it."

"Sure, do what you want, like usual." Carlton said haltingly before he began to walk past his son and added just as he rounded London's tense shoulder, "But please be subtle, though. You're already causing distress at the Ministry of Defense and my office."

London snorted and started to finally march towards the exit. Just as he reached the door, he turned his head and detected a unique brown coat far away. Apparently his father was heading for platform 3 where, according to a big screen London had fleetingly memorized before he met his father, a train from Cambridge soon would be. But then London went through the door and decided to take a cab back to the tower block.

After his strange meeting with his father, the Consulting Criminal had finally taken a look at one of the cases Cruz had given him; a cold, boring one about illegal immigrants who five years ago had committed a series of crimes that the newspaper back then had written a lot about. Cruz's proposed files didn't appeal to the London at all, but he had to do whatever it took to keep his mind from 'rotting' and the walls/ceiling bullet hole free.

One late afternoon when Elliot was in his room, London used his time to stay in the living room and call more soldiers and veterans. Quite unexpectedly, he discovered a man who had been involved in a pretty intense combat and afterwards had been awarded with a medal and sent home with a few fingers missing. According to the colonel's documentation, the soldier had refused to engage in talks with therapists and psychologists and more or less isolated himself after his return to England.

London had searched his name through various newspapers and records and found out the hero nowadays openly declared he despised every authority in England. His eyes narrowed as he read the text on the pieces of paper and he experienced a flare of interest by the information but suddenly remembered what he had promised Elliot; to tell him if something happened with their case. And so, he stood up from the chair, listened to the protesting creaks from his knees and began to march towards Elliot's room.

Without hesitation, he opened the closed door open, only to see Elliot standing with his back uncovered.

Elliot stood between the wardrobe and the foot of the made bed, facing the large window so London could get quite a view of his back, and through the corner of his eye, he detected the rectangular mirror on the wall beside him that showed a reflection of the man.

Elliot had his shirt hanging by his elbows, which created a captivating band of creases on the loose, curtain-like fabric from the small of his back to the lower line of the belt in his trousers. London's thoughts about the case vanished, as if the new information about Elliot without further delay needed to be processed by his mind.

Elliot turned his head a second later with confusion visible on the face. London clenched his jaw upon suddenly sensing something strange coil in his stomach. A brief scent reached him and he recalled the fragments that defined Elliot; soap, food, aftershave and a scent London would never be able to pin-point. Elliot cleared his throat and brought his shirt back up to his body.

While the faint sounds of buttons being pressed through narrow holes filled the room, Elliot added, "The scars..." The Consulting Criminal flinched and steadied himself with a hand against the door-frame, practically clinging to it with long fingers. His brain hadn't even registered the scars that remained after the fire and that was bewildering to a man like London.

How could he not have noticed them?

"Are not prominent at all. The new skin growth is protecting your old wounds well as can be expected. It always takes time for the human body to let the fibrous tissue do its work and then disappear, but you know that. You will be fine," London found himself saying in a monotone voice and Elliot turned around to face him, his arms hanging unassuming by his sides, one corner of the shirt's collar pointing upwards, and as Elliot lifted his head, London saw the very subtle glance at his left shoulder.

The one where another scar rested.

Elliot sighed and finally met his eyes, his face becoming collected again but carrying an almost pained look. "So, what made you dash through my door?" he asked.

London swallowed with difficulty, as his tongue felt slightly swollen inside the cavity of his mouth. And blood pounded in his ears which certainly was disconcerting.

"The scars don't mar you. So please don't let them maim your self-esteem," London emitted quietly and those brown eyes stared back at him for a moment. Then the Consulting Criminal found the way back to his previous purpose and launched himself into the news concerning the case.

"I've found a suspect. Or so it would seem."

Elliot straightened his back and took a trusting step forward, seriousness etched on his face. "Lead the way," he said briskly and gestured to London to move from the doorway. London did so and walked back to table and picked up the piece of paper that displayed the phone number of a certain Miles Stewart and forgot about the whole unusual episode upon hearing Elliot's steady feet following in his wake. 

As always.

With fluent efficiency London reached for the phone buried under a heap of papers on the desk, plopped down on the couch, and pressed the buttons for Private Miles Stewart's number. His mind was keen and sharp, ready to deduce but then he realized something.

Elliot came to his side and brushed a hand over the chin.

"You do have a strong feeling it can be him then?," Elliot noted with a hushed whisper as if they were outside in a dark alley waiting for a criminal to expose himself; which they sort of were. "I can't remember a Miles Stewart," he added with an apologetic smile.

"Let's see if he recalls you," London replied and held the phone to his ear while crossing his arms and leaning back into the couch. Apparently Elliot chose to remain standing, although he did grip the back of the couch and London found himself not completely unaffected by this sudden change with the case.

"Miles here," a bored voice drawled and the Consulting Criminal dived straight into trying the man's emotional state.

"Hello, Mr. Stewart. My name is Martin Christopher," Elliot gave him a dubious look, "and I'm writing an article for the Daily Telegraph about the company you served with in Afghanistan…"

"Go to hell! You journalists are just as bad as the other bastards who secretly work for the government! You lot don't call me; I call you!"

London heard from the fainter sigh after the furious growl that Mr. Stewart was about to hang up. "A soldier and doctor named Elliot!" he cried out and caused the edgy doctor to jerk but thankfully Mr. Stewart returned the phone to his ear.

"What about him?" he asked darkly and London was unable to determine whether the man was angry with the journalist he thought London was or Elliot.

"I interviewed him recently. He recommended me to contact you. As I understand it, he treated you after the accident with your hand," London said, knowing full well that Elliot, like him, was unable to tell if the scenario was true but he took a guess and could play the part of a mildly ignorant journalist who occasionally mixed up his facts.

A mutter came from the veteran and getting an ominous feeling, London placed the phone on the table in front of him so Elliot could also hear the conversation.

"Well, then he's lying or suffers from bad conscience. He never took care of me." The two men in the living room exchanged looks and waited for him to explain. "I was transferred to that company and spent three days there before the terrorists busted my hand. And all I heard throughout the three days was brag about their heroic army doctor. Elliot the brave. Elliot, the hero."

London noticed Stewart's second mention of the word hero and Elliot began to frown as the grim snarl continued with venom.

"The famous doctor who performed miracles and saved three fatally wounded men in the field single-handed. But that didn't exactly help me when I got in the way of a grenade on the third day. Because the brilliant doctor had thought it convenient to take a bullet to his shoulder the day before! So all I got was a pissing scared medic brat who wouldn't know the difference between nerve-ends and veins. Which is why I'm surprised Elliot remembers me at all," Mr. Stewart rumbled and London listened to him destroying something made of glass.

He gritted his teeth to implore himself to stay calm and collect information while not blowing his cover. No matter how hard he wanted to defend Elliot, it wasn't in a journalist's place to do so and one part of him relished that Mr. Stewart turned out to be quite talkative, even though his demeanor was hostile.

"I'm terribly sorry for my mistake, sir. I'm not familiar with the details concerning the military. Although, I admit this brings me to my actual reason for calling. How do you fare today? What kind of support have you received after your return to England?" London said carefully but was unable to use a soft voice to the vicious man who seemed to hate Elliot.

"Want the ugly truth, do we? Well, put this in your patriotic article because I'm not embarrassed; I'm a wreck in a lonely cottage with liquor as my only friend. I've got no money, had to sell my medal, and can't get a job with a monstrous hand like this one. My wife left me when I came home. She was disgusted by my hand. And the snotty psychologists they sent after me were wrong; it doesn't get better!" Mr. Stewart spat and London began to feel as if he had underestimated the man. He could be dangerous, almost acting like a psychopath by making up his own world in that cottage somewhere in England.

He turned his eyes to Elliot who now looked very troubled and unsettled as he tentatively, without making any noise, placed his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"Is that so? So your wife's leaving didn't have anything to do with," London glanced at the proper line on the notes in front of him, "your four long trips to the war in three years, according to my sources?" To invade a stranger's life was always risky but could be revealing, going by provoked people's reactions.

"How dare you? I knew it from the start; you're a fishy fucker who's conspired with the others against me! Well, I don't give you my permission to use anything from this conversation in your fucking article, and if you call Elliot again, tell him to leave me and my severed hand alone. I'm sure a shoulder counts higher than a hand in his book so he can fuck off. And you can bugger off as well!" Mr. Stewart screamed before he ended the call abruptly.

A shocked silence filled the room. For once, London was dumbfounded as he stared at the device on the table whereas Elliot put his arms on the hips and commented dryly, "I never was one of the popular kids at school so I can't say I'm terribly hurt."

London pursed his lips and turned to the ex-soldier. "What did you deduce during this conversation?"

Elliot huffed with apprehension. "Wouldn't you already have figured everything out? If this is to mock me…"

"It's not. I do value your opinion," London interrupted as he intensely studied him.

"Fine then. Like before I can't for my life remember Stewart. But if what he said is true, and I only saw him in my company for two days before I got shot it's quite possible he resents me for not being there for him when he was hurt. But I believe he blames more people than me for his misfortune. And if he in addition to all this has avoided therapists and such, his clearly depressed mind could make him think he is still at war. For that reason he could be reckless and unpredictable," Elliot trailed off and then shook his head while looking at London, as if to indicate that he didn't have anything else to say.

"Excellent. You covered Stewart's current emotional state very well. However you forgot to perceive his physical ability," London said and stood up to begin to pace the room out of eagerness to share what he had learnt.

"First of all he claimed to have a badly healed hand, and the documents we have say he lost three fingers on his right hand; the middle finger, the ring finger, and his index finger at the first joint. But I heard him hurl an item of glass against a surface with too much force than one can manage by sweeping with the arm. He used his hand. So no matter in which hand he had the object or the phone, he can use the impaired one for purposes that require some motor skills."

London altered between holding one hand to his ear while using the other to throw something invisible to demonstrate his point.

"That brings me to my second point; without doubt Mr. Stewart can't afford, doesn't want, or doesn't need prosthesis. So he would be able to sneak into our apartment, steal the dog tags and use pliers or other tools to remove one of them, return to the flat with the stealth of a soldier while you were sleeping with pills in your system, and drench the place with probably gasoline, which often requires two hands. Ergo; he's not the cripple he makes us believe. And then there's the wife."

"What about her?" Elliot asked curiously and London stopped walking with one foot in the air. "I…need data," he murmured and frowned. "A loving wife rarely runs off because of a disfigured hand. I think there are more to this story than Mr. Stewart let on. I upset him when I brought up her. The question is; was she only tired of waiting for her husband and devastated to know how much he had changed when he returned wounded from the last trip, or did she have another reason?"

Elliot ruffled his hair a little and his shirt moved over his chest upon the stretching movement. "This seems bloody impossible, Holmes. To find a wife we don't even know the name of, and dig up facts about Stewart's private life; no documents from the army would help us there. Can we ask Cruz to assist?"

"To investigate a known war hero is always sensitive. He would not come within five feet of the case. And we still have no solid proof that Mr. Stewart even could be considered as a suspect. We are on our own, my friend."

Elliot suddenly hung his head and sighed. "So it seems. He did sound pretty aggressive, didn't he?"

London sensed Elliot's fear. "Don't worry, I will find his wife and other necessary data if you give me a couple of days. But I assure you I have never heard of a veteran threatening a fellow soldier in a vendetta."

"Have you read a newspaper lately?" Elliot retorted but lifted his head and the troubled expression melted away.

London smiled reassuringly at him and commented, "Besides, maybe we are fooling ourselves. We can't know for sure that it is Mr. Stewart who was behind the fire so I want you to keep calling the soldiers on the list. We are almost finished with the English ones."

Five days later a storm arrived to London and once the brutal winds had ripped the last brown leaves from the trees, snow began to fall. And not just a little. No matter how fast people fought to get control over the white mass, the whole center of the capital turned into an idyllic landscape, had it not been for the icy streets and layers of snow on the pavements that the huge distribution of salt and sand couldn't beat.

The temperature dropped to below freezing point and every day the newspapers reported about elder men and women who fell on the slippery streets, cheeks that had been left uncovered and frostbitten, and the chaos with the gridlock that happened every day. The winter had inevitably arrived and taken the busy city as hostage.

A few days later Elliot found himself struggling in the evening through the streets of frozen snow. The sky was black but colorful lamps helped him see where to place his feet. He was on his way back to the tower block after taking a walk to clear his head and although he had been tempted to take a cab he knew it would be nearly impossible to find an unoccupied one, let alone be able to drive through the paralyzed stopper of honking cars and buses.

So he had relied on the underground but in the warm train he had remembered that he really had to shop groceries today since he had postponed it for two days. And that was why he now fought his way from the store with two heavy plastic bags in his gloved hands and his own satchel slung over his shoulder.

A gasp escaped him and he groaned when the breeze developed into a strong wind that carried small but hard crystals of snowflakes which stung his face until he lost the feeling. With clenched teeth the ex-soldier determinedly pressed on, comforted by the knowledge that his destination was close.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Elliot growled as he deeply regretted his decision to not take the fluffy, windproof winter coat with a hood he kept in his closet. The jacket he currently wore didn't offer any protection from the piercing wind or the big flakes that soon melted on the thin material and made him wet and shivering.

And there, there was the large building at last. Elliot breathed solely through his mouth to get the quantity of air he needed but felt relieved that he finally arrived. He pressed the code, reached for the door and stumbled inside only to see a woman with a baby carriage enter the lift and make no room for another human. Elliot helplessly watched the doors close.

He refrained from cursing out of frustration since the echo would travel far in the tall building. He glanced at his burden and then at the stairway. It was a long way to the seventh floor but on the other hand at this point Elliot just wanted to get inside and defrost. It was better to move than wait for the lift and so, he tightened his grip on the bags and pushed out his cold chin.

'I was in Afghanistan and live with London bloody Holmes. I can do this,' he thought to encourage himself before he began to climb the stairs. Once he reached the right floor he was tired, his back sweating and his face was numb. His thighs burned, his knees ached and his arms shook from exertion of holding the weight of canned food, vegetables, milk, and packages of meat.

With great effort, Elliot took out the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He more or less shoved the bags over the threshold with his feet and entered with one hand on the wall to steady himself. His own bag dropped to the floor and he tried to hear if London was somewhere but could only make out his own labored breathing.

"Holmes?" he spoke and was met by a distant greeting from the living room. Elliot's energy had vanished after the last thirty steps and now he felt utterly drained and cold. So he did what he had learnt to do in the army.

He called for help. "Can you give me a hand here?"

"Fine, fine. But please come here first. I've discovered something interesting about our infuriated veteran," London replied and Elliot removed his damp jacket and threw it carelessly on the hanger. Never mind responsibilities. All he desired was to gain his breath, fall onto the couch and hear what progress the Consulting Criminal had made today.

Elliot shuffled towards the living room while rubbing his hands to work the blood into them. London stood by the window overlooking the snowy street below.

Had he moved since Elliot had left him earlier?

"Okay. What did you find out?," he said breathlessly and then the Consulting Criminal began to talk to the air but made no effort turn his attention from the window to face Elliot.

"Mr. Stewart is indeed in Wales. While I'm still not sure of the village's location or name, I did find out more about the wife's whereabouts and it actually surprised me that…"

Finally London decided to turn fully to face Elliot but whatever he was saying was put on pause, his voice died in his throat and Elliot was confused by his slack jaw and the widened eyes that stared at him.

"Your nose..." he said haltingly and Elliot reached up to touch his nose.

Something made his fingertips slick and once he held up the hand he saw that they were red.

"Dammit," Elliot took out a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He dabbed the area between his upper lip and nostrils while feeling embarrassed; with his frozen face he hadn't been able to feel blood trickle from his nose. When he was done London continued as if nothing out of order had happened.

"It's surprising that the missing wife works as a nurse. So it doesn't make sense that she would be disgusted by, as Mr. Stewart put it, a monstrous hand. He's lying, which I of course already suspected, so our main goal from now on is to talk to her and see if she can tell us more about her…Elliot."

London said his name with a serious tone and gestured at his nose. Elliot understood and whipped out the cloth again.

"When was the last time you had a nosebleed?" London asked and Elliot didn't like the frown that appeared on the man's pale forehead.

"As a child. But I suppose it's the cold air, and then the stairs would make the blood run faster and once I came into the warmth in here the skin over the shallow vessels burst," Elliot mused with his doctor voice before he lowered his hand from the face and gave a small laugh. "There. Better?"

At that moment he felt something give high up in both his nostrils and then fluids flowed down and made his lips warm.

"Elliot!" London called sharply and flew up from his position at the window. With four long steps the tall man was by his side and took him by the elbow. Elliot feebly pressed the handkerchief against his nose and allowed London to guide him to the couch and lower him onto it. The Consulting Criminal even went so far as to lift his legs until his whole body lay horizontally on the soft pillows.

"Pinch your bridge hard. That way you can easily prevent the blood from pouring out of the wound, and tip you head back," London calmly instructed and Elliot didn't care that he as a doctor already knew how to treat a nosebleed. He complied obediently but grimaced in disgust when blood also started to trickle down his throat. He swallowed and could taste the foul, tangy goo on the far end of his tongue. He held the white fabric that was tinged with red to his nose and breathed through his mouth. Then he located London who sat perched on the very edge of the couch.

"Danksch," Elliot mumbled but his funny accent failed to make London brighten. In fact, he seemed a little shaken.

"Holmes?" The Consulting Criminal stiffened and raised himself but kept his eyes fixed on Elliot. "Did you want me to do something?" he asked with a strained voice.

"Can you take care of the groceries?" Elliot asked, too tired to give exact instructions. His lids drifted shut and then he heard how the Consulting Criminal left the room. He relaxed against the pillows and felt his pulse even out. After a while he could tell the nosebleed was over, as he didn't need to turn the handkerchief so often.

A faint groan from hinges on the cabinets alarmed him momentarily and he warily opened his eyes. A metallic sound from the kitchen answered his silent wondering why London wasn't back yet; he was unpacking everything and had probably placed the cans in the cabinets. Grateful for his assistance, Elliot shouted to him, "Can you fix me a glass of water, please?"

Seconds later he heard the tap run and tryingly lifted the cloth from his nose. Nothing streamed down. He stopped pinching and comfortably rested the hand on his stomach. Hurried strides came through the hallway and drew nearer.

"Here. And do not move too quickly," London advised as he leaned down and promptly placed a glass in Elliot's hand. Elliot expected him to leave, or resume the clever rant he without doubt had anticipated the whole day, but he simply loomed over Elliot.

"Thanks for the help," Elliot uttered and rolled onto his side and supported the upper body with his elbow to be able to drink.

Then all hell broke loose.

Something opened inside his nose and when he by accident exhaled out of surprise, blood rained down and stained his chin, the fabric of the couch, his hand that was clutching the glass and the water in the glass.

"God dammit!" Elliot moaned before he fell back against the couch and in vain tried to find the semi-white handkerchief.

If Elliot thought the last time was bad, this one far exceeded it.

He felt how sticky, warm liquid streamed over the lower half of his face, found its way into his open mouth and ran down his chin to the back of the neck. 

The couch.

Carlton was not going to pleased.

In his shocked state he barely noticed how London removed the glass and knelt down on the carpet. Something white waved before his eyes and then Elliot realized that London had taken his personal handkerchief and now pressed it to his nose.

"You moved too quickly," he muttered in a concentrated tone before he picked up Elliot's cloth and began to roughly wipe the blood from his skin. The soft material moved across his face and he breathed through his mouth. Occasionally London's wrist bumped into his lips and he felt the warmth beneath the pale skin.

"This is not good." He lifted his gaze and saw London's ice blue eyes. They were uncertain. London cleared his throat before he let out with a small voice, "It's not stopping. It should by now but it's not. What do I do?"

Elliot glanced down and caught look of a cloth that was drenched in blood but still held against his bleeding nose. A cold shiver ran through his body and his heart plummeted from fear.

It was getting difficult to summon the strength to focus.

"Fetch the first aid kit."

"We don't have one." London exclaimed with anguish but Elliot shook his head.

"I bought one at the pharmacy after I was released from the hospital. It's in my wardrobe. There should be cotton wool in it," he said with a tired voice.

London scrambled away and not twenty seconds later he returned.

"Let me," London requested and took over the hold of the red handkerchief. Then he tore it from the nostrils and replaced it with two large balls of cotton. They tickled the walls in his nose but Elliot sincerely hoped he wouldn't sneeze now and cause another flood. He tilted his head back, valiantly swallowed the blood that ran into his throat, and waited with London for the cotton to work.

"I'm sorry about the mess I made," Elliot stated, indicating the many stains when London cut him off.

"Now do you see why I always keep bottles of biological detergent? You never know when that can come in handy."

They shared a small smile but then London touched the cotton and hissed with dismay, "It's beginning to bleed through. Something is wrong. We need to call an ambulance."

That if nothing else startled Elliot. He chuckled humorlessly and uttered with a nasal sound, "You're not calling an ambulance for a nosebleed. It's just the cold air. Let me be here for a while longer and…"

"And completely stain the couch until I can't clean it and have my father hang us for high treason? You of all people should recognize an emergency." London seemed grim but Elliot would have nothing of it. "It can be bloody stress-related! If you bring ambulance personnel here they'll laugh at a hypochondriac doctor with a silly nosebleed."

Something gleamed in London's eyes and he bent his head to Elliot's ear while carrying a smug grin. "Then I will call Molly and make her come over."

Elliot almost blew out the cotton balls in indignation.

"No! You are not ruining another evening of hers even though she would gladly come running for you." he growled in protest.

London pulled back with a smirk.

"Ambulance?"

Elliot bit his lip.

"I have already failed you enough. Please, don't hinder me. I will do whatever it takes to help you. I..." London looked away which truly made Elliot mute.

Although he didn't dare move his head an inch to the side, he could see the Consulting Criminal from the corner of his eye. The otherwise immaculate man seemed ignorant of the blood on his clothes. His curls were in disarray and his face showed nothing of the previous glee when he had told Elliot about Mr. Stewart. Also, given the fact that London had a piercing stare and steady, bloodied hands, Elliot thought it peculiar that his voice which usually was deep, collected and loud now seemed to be only one step from going mute. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, London was scared for Elliot.

"Call for the ambulance, then," he yielded and met London's burning pupils. So much relief filled them that Elliot's heart ached and time stopped. 

"Thank you," London said flatly in a voice that was void of emotion. His knees left the carpet and the trousers rustled against the expensive and now stained couch. London walked out of the room, leaving Elliot alone.

He felt awful, cold, and for some reason guilty. But most of all tired, so he gave in to the tempting sleep and drowsed off without knowing that a ruby red drop escaped the would-be blood-stopping cotton, painted a small line on his for the moment ashen skin before it ended in the crook of his mouth where the lips actually had a healthy color.

A cooling, damp material put on his nose woke him up moments later and his bleary eyes could make out a black suit and nimble fingers. "Elliot?" a frazzled, subdued voice spoke through the haze.

"Hmm?" he answered. A palm settled on his forehead and he enjoyed the cold skin until his brain started to work and he wondered if it was him who was warmer than normal.

"Do not move at all. And do not use facial expressions; that will worsen the bleeding. The ambulance is on its way. Look at me."

The last bit was uttered with a combination of harshness and panic. Troubled, Elliot found London's eyes under his unruly black curls.

"I really don't feel so well."

London's head fell down to the chest and Elliot heard a ragged breath.

"Everything will be fine. Stay calm."

Elliot refrained from nodding as he remembered London's command. "Is it much blood?" he asked faintly and London's eyes returned in front of him.

"For you, yes, which is what alarms me." London said as he watched the wet fabric that lay over Elliot's nose turn red.

Elliot's lips twitched upwards before he involuntarily felt himself slipping away into the fog again. "Do you think you can continue the briefing on Mrs. Stewart later? I'm rather tired," he mumbled and closed his eyes.

The evening was one of the worst in London's entire life.

Unable to determine why Elliot bled and was unable to help, fear clutched his heart. Elliot had fallen asleep again, leaving the Consulting Criminal alone with his racing, incoherent thoughts.

After half an hour the doorbell rang and he dashed off to let in the ambulance personnel. A stretcher was rolled inside and London glared at the offensive device. He hated that Elliot once again had to lie on one. After rousing Elliot the nurses had asked him irrelevant questions, picked him up from the stained couch and asked London to join them. Ever thinking in advance, London had thrown his coat over the shoulders and snatched Elliot's jacket so he could give him that whenever he was released from the hospital.

In the narrow space inside the vehicle, one nurse had administered IV to Elliot and another one had checked the blood pressure and anxiously shaken her head. London had immediately informed them of Elliot's blood type so that the hospital could make sure the rare blood was prepared for a transfusion. Meanwhile, Elliot drifted in and out of sleep but every time he was awake his eyes sought out London's.

Once again the care staff refused him entrance to the examination room in the A&E. Displeased at their antics, London seated himself in a waiting room and had to drum his fingertips rapidly against the armrest to keep himself still.

He absently pursed his lips and worried about Elliot before he got up and headed for a phone to call Cruz.

"Hello?" The Inspector yawned and London launched himself into explaining his purpose.

"Elliot is a target. We are at the hospital. He has a nosebleed that won't cease. I need you for something."

"What? Is he alright? What…?" Cruz sputtered before he took a breath and muttered, "What do you need me to do?"

London glanced up at the ceiling where a fluorescent lamp flickered. "Find out everything you can about Private Miles Stewart who is somewhere in Wales. I need as much data as you can gather. Elliot is in danger and I suspect Mr. Stewart is involved, if not behind the whole operation." The other man took a long time before answering.

"Are you absolutely sure you've got a case?"

"Yes!" The Consulting Criminal hissed.

"Okay, if you're positive. But it will be hard to convince to others to work extra for you. Unless…"

Cruz tapped his fingers against something plastic and London growled back, "Fine! I will take a proper look into the cold case about the illegal immigrants. Now, can you help?"

"Excellent bargain, Holmes. I'll drop by for a visit as soon as I can." The Inspector admonished before London hung up and clicked his tongue upon noticing that Elliot had spent forty minutes away from him.

Next he decided to ring and inform his father and brother of the situation and Mr. Stewart. He was not surprised when he could only get a hold of his brother who told him. "I'll see if I can get a hold of father however in the meantime, I'm sending men to investigate. While I'm not surprised, this is so much like you; brother mine, to slander a war hero, but if you are certain... I will visit the hospital tomorrow."

London promptly hung up the phone and quickly turned around when a male doctor strolled into the fairly empty waiting room. In spite of himself, London acted like a predictable human and shook the outreached hand.

"Mr. Holmes. Your friend's condition isn't good but under control. We found that his blood contains large amounts of anticoagulants. We've sent blood samples to the lab to determine what kind of substance it is. This explains why he kept bleeding; his blood wouldn't form clots. The course of events is similar for those who suffer from…"

"From hemophilia," London finished for him and made an impatient gesture. "But how is he?"

"Tired, though we're giving him one unit of blood over the night to compensate for the blood he lost. And I will write him a prescription so the blood in time will return to normal."

The doctor hesitated before admitting, "Elliot has asked for you. He should be resting but I sense he won't until he has seen you, so please come with me." While contemplating to donate money to the hospital for the man's spirit but for now settling for a silent thank you, London followed him until they arrived at a closed door. The doctor left and the Consulting Criminal sneaked in.

A lamp on the night table shone a dim light over a sickly yellow head. London stiffened as he was forced to see Elliot looking small, broken, and pitiful in a hospital bed with a tube attached to his arm and blood slowly dripping into him. London drew near and searched his face for signs of distress. Clean cotton balls were stuck to his nose with tape holding them in place. The nose tip was red from unwanted attention and wrinkles had appeared on Elliot's forehead.

He breathed through his mouth and indicated with his hand that London could take the chair beside him. He seated himself, adjusted his coat, and noticed that Elliot wore a hospital gown.

"You've done it again. You did the right thing. The doctor said that if I hadn't come here the consequences would have been terrible," he whispered and barely moved his lips. This wasn't how he should be the Consulting Criminal thought.

"I have convinced Cruz and my brother to join us and until they do, I know this will be a bit 'not good', but I need to ask you questions."

"So it wasn't stress-related after all," Elliot declared but then London wrung his hands and replied, "You were poisoned. I underestimated everything, I'm sorry. The threat against you, the data, I failed to discover the signs that you were becoming more tired than usual. This is a serious situation with you at stake so I sincerely hope you are willing to answer my questions."

Elliot looked at him with honest surprise before he gave in. "Okay."

And no matter how much London tried to resist, he out of habit began to study Elliot with a calculating gaze he used every time he interrogated people in cases.

hmmmmm...

"When did you first begin to feel exhausted?" The Consulting Criminal still hated himself for not noticing the signs.

"I thought it was the work but now I realize I've never been so knackered; so maybe two ago."

"Could someone have switched your vitamin pills?"

Elliot scratched his chest.

"How would anyone get hold of them? If someone tampered with them in the store, how would they know which bottle I would take?"

"I see your point," London muttered before he added, "The same goes for groceries. If they were spiked I would be affected too and other people as well. And I don't suppose you've felt a sting from a syringe these past weeks, or seen an irritated spot on your body?"

"No, I haven't. But the doctor said I had high levels of anticoagulants in me. I couldn't have eaten enough of something poisoned to achieve that when I've cooked meals, for those of us, who eat every evening." Elliot said and tilted his head to London who thoughtfully dragged a finger over his lips.

"Every evening, varied ingredients. Different dinners. Don't you see? What if you indeed ate the same food several times, only not for dinner but for lunch?"

Elliot locked his astounded eyes on him. "I have eaten fish and chips at Samir's almost every other day. Do you think…"

"Yes," London interrupted. "Either he's aware of it and good at deceiving or someone has dosed the food with drugs without his knowledge. I'll call Cruz and ask him to search the shop and find Samir. But you do understand what this means?"

"Sorry, no," Elliot said haltingly and frowned.

"The culprit or their companion has been watching you for a long time. Long enough to know your habits, where you eat and walk between Scotland Yard, Baker Street and our current residence. They might very well know the code to the building as well. I'll make sure the management fixes that," London mumbled to himself as he began to design measures to counter the increased threat against Elliot. He needed to contact the his homeless network and see if they knew anyone involved with arson and poisoning at the moment.

"Fantastic. I'm being hunted by a ruthless, clever murderer who probably served with me in Afghanistan." A devastated Elliot emitted and London didn't answer because Elliot wouldn't be comforted by lies. Instead he got up and moved to the door.

"Wait," Elliot said absently which brought the Consulting Criminal to a stop. "Don't go back to the tower block. If what you say is correct and whoever is after me knows the code… please stay away, okay?"

London snorted and narrowed his eyes but kept himself within Elliot's eyesight so he wouldn't need to move his head and disturb his nose. He spotted a remaining speck of blood on Elliot's neck. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by an urge to wash it away but swallowed it down and rotated smoothly on the spot until he faced the door.

"I'm aware of the risk, which is one reason behind my decision to stay here overnight."

Elliot was heard shifting on the bed.

"I know how easy it is to enter a hospital without detection. Naturally I plan to keep an eye on you throughout the night so no intruder will harm you further."

"So you are going to watch me sleep?" It didn't take a genius to detect the hesitation in Elliot's quiet voice.

The Consulting Criminal whipped his head around and said stiffly, "You disagree. Why?"

"Just... never-mind. Please go get yourself a coffee and something to eat so you won't exhaust yourself and find yourself in a bed beside me."

"This is a case. Nutrition is a unnecessary waste of time," London remarked tersely and disappeared through the door.

Everything seemed clearer in the morning.

Perhaps it was the new blood. Perhaps it was the hours of undisturbed sleep. But not mulling over which, Elliot woke up to a light knocking on the door.

He felt warm again, still a bit tired but knew that he would recover in time, and was able to concentrate on other things than the merciless nosebleed, London's concern, and the actual…

Elliot bit himself in the cheek to steer his thoughts away from that particular event yesterday, sat up, and cleared his throat to summon his voice.

"Come in."

Barely had he uttered the words before Alexander marched inside with an inauspicious mask of supremacy that very well suited his polished shoes and the thick, black coat that made the tall but lean man seem broad and impressive.

"I am not sure whether I should thank you or curse you for driving my brother to the point where he asks for my help," the man said and Elliot's eyes became slits. He was not fond of these kinds of confrontations so early in the morning, especially when he had been poisoned and nearly bled to death.

"Get to the point, Alexander," he muttered and valiantly met the keen eyes that searched him like London did.

"Naturally. Now you do understand that from now on you two will share this case with me and my father, and of course Scotland Yard. We have evidence that these things that keep happening to you are not accidents, but very refined assassination attempts. I have sent some of my people to  further investigate your current residence and its surroundings. Samir Ghaddar has been arrested and is at the moment in police custody, though I will soon make sure he gets transferred to a place so my men can…"

Not so subtly, Alexander stopped talking and instead began to smile at Elliot and he had finally seen a glimpse of exactly how terrifying London's brother could be. He straightened his hospital robe awkwardly.

"I don't know what you'll do, but please be civil when you interrogate him," Elliot begged while hiding the snarky tone. Alexander kept smiling and tenaciously began to walk around in a circle but his eyes remained fixed on Elliot.

"I have arranged a team of bodyguards and scouts who will protect you and my brother until we have located the person behind this plot."

"Wait a minute. So not only may I be watched by criminals, but also by your goons? I live in crowded London! Surely this isn't necessary," Elliot protested when Alexander said with ice in his voice, "You are lucky to be alive, Elliot. He has almost killed you twice. I believe there are still scars on your back from the fire and Brodifacoum, rat poison, coursing in your blood, according to your doctor and my brother's own deduction. We cannot have someone so dangerous threatening a citizen in our community without dealing with it. You should try to see it from my point of view."

Once more, Elliot felt rather defenseless against an eerily collected Alexander but it was the next words that truly wounded him. "London is devastated, Elliot. Not only did he call me, and attempt to call our father, but he actually approached me when I came here to share the information about the case. If not for your own sake, so at least for his: do not fight us when we offer to lend you a hand and keep you safe."

Elliot answered resentfully, "Don't you think I know how he is? You didn't see him yesterday. He looked like a scared, distraught little boy! I'm always thinking about his well-fare so don't challenge me on that point. I just happened to for one single fucking second think about myself in this insane situation! I'm sorry for worrying about my privacy and bloody peace of mind in a vain attempt to keep a normal life and not panic!"

Throughout his outburst, Alexander had observed him with indifference and wasn't affected by the harsh words. Elliot panted and heard his pulse in his temples. Not only was his spirit was ruined, but he felt spent and angry.

"We will leave the apartment alone as long as we are permitted to survey the ventilating system, the entrance and the area around the building. My brother is often by your side in the apartment anyway so I doubt anyone could enter without his knowledge. And I promise we will keep a distance when you are elsewhere; you will hardly see us," Alexander commented lightly before his smirk disappeared.

"Elliot, my brother has taken a severe blow to his pride by contacting me on your behalf but the man I saw outside this room is far more shattered than he lets on. I guess it's the nerves with all this ugly business. Do show him kindness, hm?"

Then the mysterious brother took his leave and exited the room. Elliot was left with a theory he was slowly losing his mind because of all madness around him. A nurse entered; probably had been side-stepped by the magnificent official, and gently said good morning and started to check his vital signs before removing the empty bag that had contained blood and the tube that led into Elliot's arm.

Just as Elliot began to relax again, London barged in like a hurricane and ignored the nurse's reminder that it wasn't visiting hours yet but he rudely snapped at her.

Elliot threw him a disapproving glare at his behavior but didn't think the Consulting Criminal noticed. Somehow London looked like a mess with pale features, bloodshot eyes, wrinkles on his coat which Elliot deduced meant he had been sitting all night, and crazy curls that had been ruffled more than one time.

Quite frankly, the Consulting Criminal looked unhinged.

The nurse finished her task, carefully asking if Elliot was okay with his visitor, and told him the doctor would come by in an hour or so.

Meanwhile, London shot glowering looks at her until the door swung close after her.

"Well hello to you too." Elliot said and noted that London didn't choose to sit on the chair.

"You have to buy raw spinach. I will pay for it but make sure you get it somehow."

Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Great. To find spinach for some random experiment when it's winter. That will be fun," he uttered with a sarcastic tone and London buried his hands in the pockets of his coat and lowered his chin to his chest.

"Spinach is one of the vegetables with the highest levels of K-vitamin. You'll need that to help your blood coagulate," he emitted quietly and Elliot could easily feel the unusual tension between them. 

"Look, I'm not mad you." He tried friendly, wanting to coax London into talking about the what was really bothering him. The Consulting Criminal's haggard head emerged from the safety of his chest and Elliot curiously stared at the tinged spots on his cheeks that contrasted against his pale, smooth skin.

"Thank you. I had to endure a terribly boring lecture from Alexander in the corridor about the importance of collaboration with him and our father because of the methods used to attempt to kill you. And I haven't even told him about the couch yet."

"You're lying," Elliot remarked and felt a spark of both humor and alarm at London's persistence to avoid the truth.

"Trust me, Elliot; even though I am quite familiar with crime scenes and bodies in various stages of decomposition, it still is…alarming to me to see you bleed until you faint. There! Happy? The secret is out: I am only a human too, at times," London stated with a detached voice that wasn't correct for the words he was saying.

Elliot gazed up at him and replied, "I wasn't planning on mocking you. What's really wrong and don't lie to me."

"Morning, my two favorite people," Inspector Cruz cheerily greeted, unaware that he had just entered a lair of thick, unresolved suspense.

"Hello," Elliot said fleetingly and gave a wave with his hand whereas London sniffed and began to deduce Cruz from his appearance. Sprawling hair indicated a full night's sleep instead of working on the case. Bad. A gush of well-known cologne: Cruz had encountered Alexander outside. The man moved to Elliot's side and held out an open box with green grapes.

"Just a little something," Cruz muttered and London let out a haughty chuckle.

"God! Can you get more boring and predictable?" Once more Elliot looked at him with something London found easier to take than the big, hazy, brown eyes.

"Thank you." Elliot said pointedly and Cruz shrugged.

"It was either that or flowers, so I figured something edible and aesthetically could serve two purposes."

Elliot put the grapes on the night table before clasping his hands before him. "I suppose you're not only here to bring me fruit," he hinted and London found himself incapable of stopping another snarl. He wanted Cruz to do what he had come for and then go so Elliot could rest and so he could tell him what was really bothering him and make peace in order to work together on the case. Thank goodness at least the color had returned to Elliot's face after the night. London found himself preferring a healthy-looking Elliot over the weak ghost covered in blood from yesterday.

"What's with him?" Cruz asked Elliot and pointed a thumb in London's direction, as if he wasn't able to speak for himself.

"The case," Elliot said, clearly not delving any further into the truth, which confused London. Was Elliot protecting him from exposure? London floated closer to Elliot's bedside to examine his features, wanting to draw a conclusion from his friend. Neither one of the other men acknowledged his ministrations.

"Apparently I'm expected to send a daily report of the progress with the case to London's brother and father. I hate paperwork but there was no way out of it. On top of that, I'm off to Wales. A team waits for me there so what I want to know is everything you've got on this Miles Stewart."

"His voice sounded harsh and he had a bad temper, at least when Holmes spoke with him. According to Stewart he was in a cottage and I don't think he was lying about that. Also, he's missing some fingers but we have this idea that he maybe hasn't prosthesis because he can use both his hands. He's emotionally unstable and depressed. He's not likely to have a bunch of mates around him," Elliot reeled off and London was impressed that Elliot had remembered all this after the awful nosebleed.

He watched over Elliot like a hawk in case the doctor got tired with the questions from Cruz. "That will help us identify him. And Alexander said he could dig up a photograph of Stewart from the military personnel records. Have you got anything else for me?"

Elliot tilted his head towards London and his blonde hair waved elegantly. London held his breath again but Elliot was unfazed by the impact he had had on the Consulting Criminal. "London found data about Mrs. Stewart. Perhaps she could tell you more about her husband if you find her. She…" Elliot faltered and stripes of creases appeared on his forehead.

"Holmes, what was she?" 

London gritted his teeth and impatiently pressed the palm of his right hand into the night table.

"She is a nurse and has left her husband. So it doesn't make sense that she would be discouraged by a maimed hand. She works at the Nevill Hall Hospital in Abergavenny. For the moment I don't know anything else." The Inspector sent a searching glance at him, probably to establish that he wasn't hiding any details.

"Sounds promising. I'll call you when I've met her. Oh, and Holmes, here are those files," Cruz smirked as he took out some files from under his coat and held out them to London. He snatched them from the Inspector's fingers and was ready to shoo him out so he could start his journey to Wales as fast as possible but Elliot interfered.

"Cruz?"

The Inspector turned around.

"Stewart is a damaged veteran and he's stated that he despises every British authority. He could have weapons so you and your team better be careful."

"Oh I almost forgot! Thanks for reminding me by bringing up the war," The Inspector exclaimed and picked up a small, transparent bag from his pocket. "Consider this as a good luck charm. We're done with it so maybe it can protect you again."

He tossed the bag to Elliot who caught it and London saw, through the plastic material, Elliot's dog tag.

"My, my. Isn't this a far more original gift, Inspector. I knew you had it in you," London drawled but to his chagrin no-one graced him with a retort.

"Thank you for getting it back." Elliot smiled and dragged a thumb over the metal through the plastic.

Cruz bid them farewell and left the room. 

After the Inspector had left, the Consulting Criminal informed Elliot of the plan he had made for when he was released from the hospital, he also vaguely told him what he had been talking to Alexander and his father about and the data he had but he still required more. 

Sometime during London talking to him, Elliot had fallen back asleep. The Consulting Criminal took a few minutes to sit and observe him before he decided to quietly leave and hopefully beat his brother and his cretins back to the tower block. 

When London returned to the hospital, carrying the stacks of paper in the same black bag he had kept his vault in before, Elliot was already waiting at the entrance in his own clothes.

London held the cab and beckoned Elliot to him. One of Carlton's employees leaned against a brick wall and smoked nearby. The Consulting Criminal snorted in his direction and offered one hand to Elliot to help him climb inside but he didn't take it. Shrugging it off, London got into the cab himself and then they drove off.

The Consulting Criminal was forced to drum his fingers against his left leg out of worry. The threats against Elliot had affected him more than he dared let on, as he now had to turn his head and look in every direction like a nervous deer throughout the ride. Looking, looking for spying eyes or something worse. Never before had he feared the city itself but all of the sudden he resented it for every corner and alley where a hit-man could prepare for an ambush.

Elliot must have sensed his gathering fear.

"Keeping watch?"

Luckily London had already deduced that the cabbie was an ordinary man and not a villain in disguise. He wouldn't be a threat even if he overheard the conversation

"Yes," he said briefly and saw how Elliot tensed up.

Neither of them said anything else until they were back at their destination. Even Elliot had detected the agents lurking near and it was a punch to the gut for London to see his friend walk the short distance between the cab and the building with a stiff stance and long if not hurried strides. He moved like a soldier sneaking behind enemy lines; afraid of detection. 

Mentally, Elliot was back in Afghanistan.

The Consulting Criminal made his way into the living room with the black bag. He had saved copies of the valuable information from their investigation and sent them to Alexander, Carlton and Cruz. He heard Elliot follow him and knew his gaze would seek out the recently cleaned couch and carpet for traces of the blood that had been spilled. But London had done a marvelous job of removing the stains; not for the sake of the fabrics but for Elliot's and his own.

Never again did he want to see Elliot's blood as a macabre memento of peril and mortality.

"You saved us from the gallows, I'm impressed." Elliot commented 

London too seemed capable of moving on to the next important task at hand: handling the case. He marched out of the living room, towards his bedroom and called, "Come along, Elliot."

Elliot followed as always, but he took some time to inspect London's room while he practically dove into his organized wardrobe. He always felt sort of encased by the burgundy color on London's walls and he thought it reminded him of the cozy feeling he had gotten when entering their old apartment. Sure he enjoyed the white, modern coloring here, but London's room felt like home, even though Elliot knew he was silly for thinking like that. He looked at the made bed and smiled upon detecting no creases whatsoever on the duvet.

Clearly London was faulty when it came to domestic work but he certainly knew how to make a bed that even a colonel would be proud of.

A clank sounded from the wardrobe and Elliot turned around. The Consulting Criminal shifted backwards and straightened his back. In an open drawer stood a small but expensive-looking vault with its door ajar.

Elliot's curiosity was peaked.

"You have your first aid kit, Elliot, and I have mine. I want you to know that if you ever need to flee from England, there are prepared passports, visas and enough money to bribe your way into twenty countries all around the globe. I'm sure you could find a way to break into it. Even my brother or father doesn't know about the content in my vault."

Elliot folded his arms before his chest and tilted his head. "Why are you telling me this? We're not in that kind of danger, are we?"

Instead of answering immediately, London dug a hand into the vault and rummaged through it and Elliot heard papers of different kinds, possibly banknotes rustling.

"In case of an emergency," London smirked, once again comparing his semi-legal treasure to Elliot's medical kit, and pulled out two guns.

"What the?" Elliot gasped and on cue stumbled back. Even if he had served in the army he had never gotten used to weapons when other people carried them. And his lifestyle with the Consulting Criminal hadn't changed that. He still got nervous when someone brandished a gun in front of him and it didn't matter that it was his best friend who currently held the weapons peacefully pointed downwards.

"No need to get excited. It's just two boring Browning HP's," London began, ignorant of his wariness and handed him one gun.

"How and why?"

At that, London's smirk changed to an indignant expression and he pursed his lips in displeasure.

"Of course I would acquire a pair to ensure that you are protected by more than brother and father's obvious spies," London explained as the gun settled in Elliot's hand. 

The weight was perfect.

Then he caught himself and asked as anxiety swept through the room and made it seem colder despite the rich red tone on the walls, "Do you believe someone will attack me? Face to face?"

"The man behind the fire and the poisoned food is clever and unpredictable. Too sophisticated to be a weak-minded, average murderer. But even a genius can lose patience and take to more common tactics to harm you," London replied and Elliot released the magazine with fluent, experienced movements to check if the weapon was loaded.

"I can protect myself if it comes to that and if a sniper is aiming at me I can't do anything to prevent it anyway, you know that and but most important of all; Alexander, Carlton and Cruz are working on the case and will surely catch Stewart soon."

Although, Elliot reluctantly confessed to himself, he was a bit spooked after everything that had happened but he refused to act like a hunted prey. He had to live like he always had to remain sane. The man before him pulled himself up tall and stared him down with those piercing grey eyes that gleamed like cold fires from the shadow under the curly fringe.

"Elliot."

His voice was dark, rumbling as if to point out the seriousness but Elliot knew that London never was utterly unyielding to his wishes, however commanding the Consulting Criminal sounded. London closed the distance between them and Elliot tipped his head back slightly in order to defiantly glare back. The dark curls danced from the motion and now with his unclogged nostrils Elliot was perfectly able to pick up London's scent: clean shirt, 'outside', and a mix of spicy fragments that could come from cologne, soap, and chemicals. But he stood undeterred by the man looming over him.

"Take the gun or we are going north to stay away from here for a few weeks. It is entirely up to you."

Cautious of the gun in his hand, he saw to that it wasn't cocked before he growled, "Fine!"

Unexpectedly, just as Elliot turned around to walk out from the bedroom, long fingers clamped down on his good shoulder and halted him.

"I only want you to be safe, even if my methods are a bit 'not good'." London's mumble was subdued and Elliot gave a nod before gently lifting his shoulder to indicate in a friendly manner that he would like to be released. London let go of him but Elliot felt the material still hug the skin on his shoulder and it wasn't uncomfortable.

Elliot left the room quietly, the gun dangling by his side. A brief look at his watch told him it was time for his medication to readjust the anticoagulant levels in his blood.

How he wished all that he had to do was taking a pill to make all the bad things go away.

Later that evening after Elliot had taken a shower and changed clothes, he was busy standing before his wardrobe and figure out how to dress to hide the gun, if he hypothetically would bring the weapon with him every time he went outside.

Suddenly his bedside phone was ringing. He picked up the device and held it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Wait a moment, sir. I'll put you through," a woman chirped and beeps were heard.

Elliot raised his eyebrows and then a familiar silken voice declared, "Apologies for that procedure, Elliot."

"Carlton," Elliot mumbled and glanced at his closed door, knowing that there were only so many inches of wood separating him from a Consulting Criminal on the move.

"I presume my son is in your presence as we speak," Carlton said with a hint of inquiry.

"No, I'm on my own."

"As much as I would prefer he did not meddle with this delicate thing I fear he one way or another will find out the news I have. You might as well summon him," Carlton mused but Elliot realized he hadn't been given the option to object. The threat against him wasn't private anymore, far from it with Carlton Holmes and Scotland Yard involved.

"London!" Elliot shouted and heard a tall man scramble up from whatever position he had put himself in and dashed into the corridor and then…

"What?" London asked sharply after having entered the room in a hurry and giving it a scanning once-over, probably for good measure, before he turned his gaze to Elliot who pointed at the phone. "Your fath…"

"I'm glad you could join us for this conversation, son. It must be more comfortable for you than trying to listen through the wall," Carlton interrupted and Elliot momentarily feared that the phone would melt in his palm from the sheer fire that came from London's glare.

"Spare me your vile insinuations, father, and tell us already," he snapped.

"Always so impolite," the other man tutted before he began to unravel the details from his progress.

"We have Mr. Samir Ghaddar as you know. Surprisingly, it did not take long for him to crumble. I have the report of his testimony in my hand courtesy of Alexander." 

Then Carlton fell silent as if to create a dramatic pause.

"By all means, read it to us," Elliot replied and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"For some time now Mr. Ghaddar has had infrequent visits from a thug. This unknown man told him very explicitly what would happen to the Ghaddar family in their house on their street if he did not do as ordered. Naturally one would think the threatened man should have alerted the police but Mr. Ghaddar has this idea that the police force is too corrupted and discriminating to help a Lebanese immigrant. And the gangster promised him that if Mr. Ghaddar had been within five feet of a police station, he could say farewell to his residence permit. The distressed Mr. Ghaddar believed him, as he was terrified for the well-fare of his family. So he did what this man asked of him."

Elliot felt burning anger stir in his core from hearing how cowardly this thug had been by threatening Samir's own family. Out of the corner of his eye he saw London hold his breath and wait for Carlton to continue.

"Apparently this man barged in through the back door to the kitchen every time you arrived to the restaurant, and handed Mr. Ghaddar a bag with powder and demanded him to add the poisonous ingredient to the food you ordered. According to Mr. Ghaddar the man had a gun and was not afraid to show it when he stayed in the back of the shop until the dish had been served. Furthermore, Mr. Ghaddar claims he in fact blinked 'SOS' in Morse Code when he came out to deliver the dishes, but you never seemed to detect it. Unfortunately there are no surveillance in that particular area which means we do not know with absolute certainty he is not in league with the criminal. But I personally believe Mr. Ghaddar is not involved in more ways than as a hostage. He has after all provided us with a lot of new information."

"Such as?" London impatiently sneered and they heard Carlton sigh theatrically.

"We have a good description of the wanted man. Although he wore a Halloween mask each time he came to the restaurant it was still possible to distinguish some things. He is very tall, approximately 6 ft 3 and broad but not in the sense of overweight. His sinewy arms indicate he is strong, in good shape but not overly so. The report says this man was quick on his feet, thus not bothered by his heavy torso. And he was always collected but terrifying with his calm demeanor as he delivered the Brodifacoum. He was not nervous when he held the gun so Samir was never tempted to disobey. As for his clothes he always wore beige trousers, brown boots, and a black jacket."

"The mask…" London began and Carlton caught on. "A grotesque gorilla. Made of rubber and can be bought anywhere. It covered his entire face except the eyes which were brown. Mr. Ghaddar didn't spend too much time studying him since he feared for his life during these unannounced visits. But we do have a lead. The accent."

"The accent?" Elliot repeated and felt his mind reel as the thought finally sunk in. Carlton had found someone who at the moment seemed more sinister than Miles Stewart and possibly could be the man behind the assassination attempts. He shared one look with London. Neither of them had really suspected someone from a foreign country when they had called the many soldiers Elliot had encountered.

"Yes. Mr. Ghaddar heard from the few words the gangster uttered that he was not from England. But it turns out Mr. Ghaddar is not so accomplished when it comes to identifying accents. My men are engaged in playing recorded different accents that belongs to the largest groups of immigrants in England for him. I am informed it will take a while but I give you my word I will call you when I have an answer."

"Not before you have had at least an hour to investigate the thing by yourself and then forward the information to Inspector Cruz so he won't feel left out!" London barked and now Elliot glowered at the childish younger Holmes. Clearly, he was despising having to share a case with his brother and father despite him being the one who originally called them and ASKED for help.

"Stop it. That isn't our main problem," Elliot stated but was met with a dignified noise from Carlton.

"Very wise, Elliot. You must excuse my son. He has always found it hard to see priorities."

"Shut up!" London yelled as he began to circle Elliot and furiously glare at the phone that was now back in his hand.

"Alright, children, I think that's enough family time for now. Thank you for informing us, Carlton but please be kind to Samir. London and I will keep researching over here. Bye," Elliot hurried to say and ended the call. 

He had no time for a Holmesian fight.

London kept walking around him but now his hands met each other under his chin and he regarded the ceiling. "Gorilla mask, accent, Brodifacoum, strong torso, accent, strong…" the Consulting Criminal muttered and didn't realize Elliot was becoming dizzy because of the frantic circling and the swishing sound of moving clothes.

"You're doing it again."