"Accent…hmm?" he replied absently and Elliot simply grabbed him the next time he passed in front of him. Immediately, London's hands fell to his side and he frowned as Elliot held onto his jacket at waist level.

"A bit not good?"

"You're trying to deduce without enough information. If we had Samir here I'm sure you would solve the mystery in one minute but we don't so why don't you go and sit down and begin to search for masks or whatever and you come find me when you know more?" Elliot suggested softly and looked up at the bewildered man.

London's eyes had left the ceiling and instead searched his face. His mind was obviously set on deducing and it was Elliot's job to aim it.

"Poison, hostage, yes, right. Always. I need more data," London muttered and shut his eyes so small wrinkles appeared on the side of his lids.

"Wales, accent, strong, pale from blood loss, worried; possibly from the threats, hand not shaking from carrying a gun, hair barely dry after a shower…" 

Elliot didn't know if he should chuckle or be concerned when London was side-tracked and started to deduce him.

"Holmes, get out!" he shouted and the taller man jumped and gasped as his brilliant eyes opened. He collected himself rather quickly and cleared his throat while taking a step away.

"Of course. I need to work. Join me whenever you want," he said and again Elliot was thrown off guard somewhat upon seeing a faint tinge of red on London's normally pale cheeks.

Had the Consulting Criminal learnt to be self-conscious at last? 

Who would have thought?

Next day London had sneaked into Elliot's bedroom when he had gone out for a walk. Despite his feeble protests, London had known that he couldn't stop Elliot from doing such, and he trusted his brother and father's men who would supervise his every step. But London abhorred the silence once Elliot had left.

He wanted to leave with the next train and isolate them from enemies. Though, Elliot would feel like a prisoner and London would not become a man who hurt him. He was Elliot's ally in this war against a murderous genius. 

But the Consulting Criminal was scared for him.

He had spent the rest of yesterday scanning ever book he owned, all in vain. Alexander or Carlton hadn't called and at some point London was tempted to go to Samir's and investigate but Elliot had stopped him by reminding him that Scotland Yard and Alexander/Carlton's team were probably already collecting evidence there so London had returned to the pointless task of page turning.

London carefully sat on his haunches beside Elliot's bed. He tipped his head and peeked under it. Elliot had missed a couple of large shards so the Consulting Criminal reached out a hand and grasped them.

Last night when Elliot had been in his room London had unexpectedly heard something going into pieces while an unrestrained scream sounded through the apartment. He had toppled the chair when he flew up from the desk and then ran to Elliot's room and barged in.

Elliot was standing in the middle with splotches of water on his clean clothes. Heaving pants and his eyes terrifyingly wild. Shards from a vase scattered around the room and a heap of ruined flowers in one corner. Elliot had shaken from pent up rage and without asking, London went up to him and gently touched his arm.

After a while Elliot calmed down and explained silently that he had felt too trapped. London traced the painted petals on the shard in his hand and recalled Elliot's helpless confession against the hand that rested on his shoulder.

"He threatened Samir's kids! Who does that to get to me? Promise me you will find whoever this lunatic is before anyone else because if you don't, I will and I swear to God I will extract a confession myself!"

London raised himself and inhaled deeply. It was thankfully impossible to smell fear. The air was only scented with Elliot, his soap and sleep.

The Consulting Criminal found he missed Elliot less when he was in his room. 

But his break was over.

He left the door half-open, exactly as Elliot had left it when he went to work, and strolled into the living room. The shards were tossed into the bin by the desk and London walked to the bathroom to wash the dust off his hand.

"Data, data, data!" London said and reached for the towel.

He was just thinking out loud and not addressing anyone in particular. Especially not the PVC-filled, grinning duck on the sink.

"Fourteen hours since Carlton's call and he still hasn't contacted me, whereas I haven't discovered anything. What am I missing? Data! Data! Data!"

London groaned, hung his head over the sink, and clenched the porcelain. He didn't want to think about Elliot out there. It was maddening for the Consulting Criminal to watch Elliot seek out his presence despite his words and actions.

He was suddenly aware of his knuckles turning white as he clutched the edge of the sink. He let go and glanced into the mirror. Sleepless eyes and combed curls. But no hint of a smile. The time for smiles was gone.

That bloody infernal duck provoked him.

"What are you grinning at? Know something I don't? Entertaining is it, to see a genius at loss? Well, guess what: you're a plastic stereotypical toy! Not even a skull which at least has something human in it. You're not human because you lack a heart!"

London refrained from getting rid of the duck when he realized what he had said.

He, London Holmes, the Consulting Criminal and High Functioning Sociopath had mentioned a vital part of the living body. Why? It wasn't even logical to equate a cranium and a heart when contemplating what was human.

London only appreciated his heart from a neutral biological point of view. The heart was a beating muscle that didn't even resemble the red hearts people liked to paint everywhere. The heart, cor, couldn't hold feelings, nor break like romantic idiots believed. The broken heart syndrome had a perfectly logical explanation; emotional stress weakening the organ. It was triggered from the brain. The brain was placed inside the skull.

The heart had nothing to do with it.

Why had he brought it up in the first place?

London shook his head and considered entering his mind palace to understand the odd way his mind had behaved in when a word fluttered by.

Love.

"Wrong!" he yelled and wrenched himself from the sink before kicking the door open and barging out with gritted teeth and a pulsing inside.

He wasn't capable of handling this, and certainly not experienced enough to wander into the world of emotions, profound feelings and affection.

He had his brain and everything else was transport.

Unaware of it, the Consulting Criminal had entered his room and nearly climbed the walls out of inability to tame the storm that raged within. Waves of nausea rolled off him and he staggered to a corner of the bed where he managed to cling to an ornamented pole. He was on thin ice now. Back at Baker Street, Mrs. Hanson or Elliot would have disturbed him by now and made him come to his senses.

At that moment, in the middle of his personal breakdown, a phone began to ring. London took a shaky breath and reached over to the bedside table.

The Inspector.

"Afternoon! There's another storm coming in and it's gonna hit you in about an hour," the Inspector announced brightly and London rolled his eyes.

Cruz was in a talkative mood.

"Thank you for the weather update. I would never of deduced it myself."

London let go of the bed poster and turned his attention to the window. Fat flakes were already falling down from the darkening sky.

Excellent.

If anyone followed Elliot's footsteps they would fail when snow and wind extinguished his footprints.

"How is Wales?" London asked and heard Cruz huff.

"Well thanks to you I'm staying at an inn which gets really cold during the nights. I had to sleep with all my clothes on last night. The inn keeper isn't fixing the heating and I'm alone here, save for a lady who I suspect sleeps with the inn keeper although they pretend to be ignorant of the thumps. My team, if you can call them that, is made from the local forces so of course they hate me when I come and drag them outside to work in the winter. I'll tell you; this morning when I woke up I couldn't feel my bal…"

"I mean what's happening with the case," London interrupted and lowered himself onto the bed, deciding to make himself comfortable while Cruz rambled on.

"Oh, that. We haven't located Mr. Stewart yet. There are many cottages here and no-one on the stations seems to recall where he lived last time they heard from him. He's known among the cops for being a loony but they don't know what he's been up to lately. But I've been more successful with his wife."

London stiffened on the bed. He was about to get new information and perhaps be able to deduce more, as though bag with pieces to a puzzle was dumped in front of him.

Exhilarating.

"Well spit it out, man."

Cruz thumbed a notepad and London refrained from pointing out that the Inspector should be able to keep a certain amount of intelligence in his head.

"Let's see here. Ah, yes. Former Mrs. Stewart, Alice, a lovely woman. Chatty. Met her this morning at the hospital where she works. She's in the cardiology section and has worked there for nine years. She told me a great deal about her ex-husband." Cruz turned a page and cleared his throat.

"Their marriage lasted seven years until two years ago when he returned from Afghanistan, just like Elliot. No children; she can't have any. She said she didn't like it when he went to the war four times in three years and stayed away longer and longer for each trip. Between his trips he wasn't really with her, as she put it. He was somewhere else in his mind. She began to contact him in his camp. Wondered if everything was alright but Mr. Stewart waved it aside with explanations that he was busy preparing for campaigns. Then, on his last trip he injured his hand and was sent back. Alice told him she didn't mind his maimed hand, that she would support him and help him find therapists. But he told her to bugger off and took to stay in their house all day, get depressed and drink up his war pension."

Cruz paused and moved around. London dragged a finger up and down the buttoned line on his shirt and listened intensely when the Inspector took a deep breath.

"Then all of a sudden her husband been hanging around a records office. She asked him what he was doing, troubled that he was also disappearing during the nights which ultimately left her alone for hours. He answered that he was trying to get in touch with his mates from the companies he had served in, which relieved her at first but then she saw he was in possession of anarchistic material. I guess that was when he turned his back on this country. But through it all Alice never heard him mention Elliot."

"So that basically covers the history of the Stewart's. What do you know about their current situation?" London asked with a collected tone.

"A couple of months after his return, Alice had enough when her husband began to blame everyone for his hand. He ate pills and snapped at her so she packed her things and left him. She hasn't been in touch with him since and doesn't know where he's living now, but he has moved from their house."

"He could be anywhere, although we still believe he told you the truth when you called him, so we're searching through Wales. His parents are dead and he has no other relatives so we have to rely on Scotland Yard to find him," Cruz stated with a serious tone and London bit down a snarky reply. The force was useful even though some idiots occasionally appeared in the lines.

He trusted Cruz with this.

"Holmes?" the other man asked tentatively and the Consulting Criminal gave him a wordless noise.

"I'm in an arctic zone scratching your back. Are you scratching mine?"

"Whatever do you mean?" London challenged and sat up, not wanting his jacket to get creases.

"The files I gave you. If you have a moment to spare, please have mercy and look into them," Cruz begged, but London detected the sarcastic tone behind the words.

That was no way to treat the Consulting Criminal.

"I'm busy. Find Stewart and then I'll solve that boring cold case."

When Cruz started to object with crude curses, London hung up.

He knew more about Stewart now.

He was ready to go back to the data and only think about the work and nothing else. 

He had control.

Elliot was on his way home from his walk. The large snowflakes whirling around him did nothing to his mood.

He left the large street and went through a narrow alley with hurried steps, always letting his eyes dart around, looking for people staring at him, or following him. Sometimes when he looked over his shoulder he thought he saw tall men standing out from the crowd and was equally relieved and annoyed that he had spotted Alexander and Carlton's men.

They kept their distance but Elliot still felt compelled to use another route for the way home than his usual. He had spent an hour searching for maps over London at the local library until he found one that covered the area between his usual route and home.

From now on he could play a morbid, awful game where he competed against himself every morning and evening: never use the same route twice. The price: a few hours at every place in safety. The forfeit: possibly a bullet in his head. So Elliot wasn't smiling as he made his way through the wintry city.

The gun bumped into his stomach every time he moved his right leg. It was true he missed the war when he was dismissed from it two years ago. And then by some ironic twist of fate, he had met London who had been able to provide danger, adrenaline, excitement and even bloodshed in the name of justice and truth which had made him resemble Afghanistan to some extent.

But the war Elliot and the Consulting Criminal fought had always been on their conditions.

Now he was in a war where someone else had the upper hand.

He frowned and tried to occupy his mind with other things.

At some point he finally reached the tower block and wondered, as he pressed the old code, when the new one would be installed by the management.

London had said he would ask them to do that, now that Elliot's life was threatened.

'God, I hope there has been some progress' Elliot thought as he climbed the stairs and praying there had been a major breakthrough with the case, whether by Cruz, Alexander, Carlton or London himself. 

His nerves were damaged after the long day of unease and he was unsure how much more he could take.

Elliot finally made his way inside and took off his jacket.

"Holmes?!" he called and trotted into the warm living room after he had wiped the snow from his shoes. He found the Consulting Criminal in the black, silken dressing gown he had bought after his blue one was destroyed in the fire, scooted down in the chair with his bare feet resting on the coffee table, which held more than his feet. One of his guns and violin, where had that come from, lay beside his left foot and a cloud of smoke hung around his head.

He was leisurely smoking a cigarette and didn't acknowledge Elliot at all.

"Hello," Elliot said a bit firmer and when London didn't turn around, he walked up to the couch to face him.

"What's with the cigarette and gun?" he asked unceremoniously.

"Please tell me you haven't used the gun on anything?" Elliot quickly glanced around and when he saw no holes in the walls he breathed a sigh of relief, and London deeply exhaled so grey fumes escaped around the glowing stick he held between his lips. 

"Cruz found Mrs. Stewart but everything else was not important."

London spoke with a lazy tone and closed his eyes, whereas Elliot narrowed his. His temper was not going to stand this attitude. "What about her? What did he say exactly? And did you search for gorilla masks or protein shakes or whatever your brain might connect with the thug who met Samir?" He waved his hand over the nearby empty desk and the stack of books.

London opened his eyes but they were not clear, his mind not set on deducing or solving mysteries. 

He was bored.

"Holmes," he muttered as a clear warning and the ice blue-grey eyes went up to the ceiling instead of looking at him.

"I don't have a bloody thing! Why can't I find something?"

A simple response that didn't please Elliot at all. He shifted his stance and crouched down until he could place one hand on the coffee table next to London's legs and the other on a part of the couch the Consulting Criminal occupied.

With barely controlled voice he emitted, "My bloody nerves are shot, Holmes. What do you mean you can't find anything?"

Smoke went into his nostrils and the bitter scent stung but otherwise London didn't even move despite the intimidatingly close position Elliot had assumed.

"I mean nothing. I'm at loss," London let out through the corner of his mouth and Elliot picked up an enigmatic tone but couldn't decipher it without London's cooperation. He raised himself and moved away from the man.

"Then what good does it to smoke in here? Haven't we had enough of poison already?" at that London flinched but then he continued puffing, "and if it's so essential for you to get nicotine, why don't you put on some patches?" Elliot asked.

London finally removed the cigarette and his lips slid off it slowly before he tipped his head to the side and curiously studied the smoke.

"Because patches are…patches, if you excuse my unimaginative phrasing. They just sit there. Now these on the other hand," London rolled his wrist and made the cigarette move in a circle, spreading ash on the surface beneath, "are more entertaining. It requires constant moving."

"Yeah, you look like a damn athletic, I give you that!" Elliot burst out and before he knew it he leaned forward and grabbed London's pointy little finger. It was as cold as the weather outside. London at last tore his eyes from the cigarette and met Elliot's.

"Take it outside."

London retracted his legs with the fluent movements of a cat and jumped up from the chair and his dressing gown bounced as much as his curls did. "As if living here saves you from toxic particles! Rest assured, Elliot; we are all going to die prematurely if the politicians don't start to think about the environment soon," London said cruelly and smirked imperiously at Elliot, who snapped.

"Well, in my case I might be dead tomorrow if you don't fucking do anything about it! I counted on you to help me through this and solve the case but you are sitting here on your arse!"

He went at London and waves of fury seemed to speed up his pulse. "Stub the fucking cigarette now, or go and finish it on the balcony!" He didn't care that London reeled back, nor that the book cases seemed to tremble and that the neighbors would have heard his enraged scream.

"Sounds like an ultimatum, one mixed with the rather colorful language at that. Is Captain Elliot making a return? Did the gun help you get your spirit back?" London snarled with a sarcastic tone and when he sauntered forward to get around Elliot, he didn't move so his broad shoulder unkindly collided with London's arm but neither of them winced.

London thrust open the door to the small balcony and stepped out barefoot before he slammed it shut so the surrounding windows rattled from the force. He stood with his back to the living room and Elliot saw him tie his dressing gown and bring up the damn cigarette to his face. 

Fuck!

The sooner this case was solved, the better.

Elliot moved for the stack of books and put them out of order just to spite the Consulting Criminal before he stomped towards the bathroom and confined himself inside. He took a large breath and groaned.

His body was still affected from the nosebleed and his daily walks, along with the worry on his way there and back, and the arguement with the childish, stubborn, Consulting Criminal had him utterly exhausted and miserable. He wanted to forget everything but the most basic things in his life.

Just listen to what nature and his body told him.

A shower. Yes, that was in order.

Elliot tugged off his clothes and folded them sloppily before dumping them on the floor of black bricks. His shoes and socks were placed beside the heap and then he stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain which shielded him somewhat from the light and made his mind begin to relax.

He turned on the water and set it on a high temperature.

A simple life. Basic needs. Warmth now. Food later.

Elliot stepped under the tiny waterfall and soaked himself within seconds. The lonely dog tag on the chain danced on his chest and the flood hit his hair and made his fringe frequently release a lot of water over his face. Nice at first, then uncomfortable as he couldn't keep his eyes open. 

As he started to scrub himself with his soap, a thought emerged. What really made London behave like that? He had obviously provoked Elliot on purpose.

But why? Elliot stretched his arm over the other shoulder and moved it over his shoulder blades. 

Elliot slammed his free palm against the grey tiles on the wall and gritted his teeth. He wasn't supposed to think about that now. He had had it with drama for the moment. He needed a break, if only a few private minutes in the bathroom.

He concentrated on a primal thing. His own skin. His fingertips caressed the area beneath the back of his neck. Firm but also tense muscles under it and he pressed the fingers into them so the stress would leave. But suddenly something coarse, protruding met his digits. Elliot stiffened and traced the rest of the upper half of his back.

The scars from the flames that had almost taken his life back at Baker Street. Shouldn't they be smaller by now? His mind slipped into doctor mode. How long did it usually take for a wound to become a fading, shrinking scar? How many days had passed since the fire? Elliot felt several other spots on his back and grimaced. His distaste for scars ran deep but the reason was not brought on by some narcissistic beauty complex.

The truth was that he hated being reminded of weakness, of being wounded so bad that his body was marked forever by the episodes. Each of the scars represented a time when he had been helpless, taken down, impaired until he found the strength to get up again. And what if he someday couldn't get up? What if in the unknown future his body suddenly couldn't take more damage done to it? That was what the brave and scared Elliot thought of when he analyzed his scars.

"You better disappear!" he mumbled with vehemence and stepped under the shower again.

No. He should think about something more common.

Natural.

Basic.

The Consulting Criminal was aiming at making a point, not getting a cold.

When the cigarette had died London flicked it over the railing and stomped with his foot.

The bitterness in his mouth erased every other taste but made his world clearer and his head keener. Still, it made him slightly nauseous and his stomach churned as he at last gave in and went inside to the warmth.

He glanced at the table and realized what Elliot had gone and done to his books.

"Vengeful," he muttered though wondered if he meant it as an insult or a compliment to his flatmate. Faintly, he heard the shower run. So that was where Elliot had retreated.

London gingerly sat down in the chair he had occupied earlier and stared at the now out of order book stack. He abhorred their rare but heated conflicts and the ensuing tension in the air. True he had deliberately talked to Elliot the way he only did to those who hurt him. Elliot hadn't hurt him. But he had made London doubt his control and if the only way he could face Elliot without betraying himself was to act like a robot, he would do so.

A while later when London was making a mental chart of the average height in the countries from which most of England's immigrants came in order to sort out those who seldom had men who were over 6 ft, the bathroom door opened. The Consulting Criminal refrained from turning around, held his breath, and listened to Elliot's slow steps.

"Are we okay?"

Even Elliot's voice sounded strained and London felt a pang of guilt. "Okay," he answered briefly but then there was a bathrobe rustling. He closed his eyes and thought with exasperation, 'Why is he still here, in a bathrobe?' He waited for the predictable continuation.

"Holmes?"

"Mmm," London hummed and rotated in his chair. Eye contact was underrated in Elliot's opinion when talking. The sight seized his heart. Spiky, damp hair, drops clinging to the visible collarbone, warm, red feet standing steady on the floor and yet Elliot looked forlorn.

Almost as uncertain as London felt. 

"I'm sorry I yelled at you but what's really wrong?"

The Consulting Criminal tilted his head to the side like a questioning puppy and fixed his eyes on the floor in front of Elliot.

"I'm aware of your distress at the present, what with the upgraded security level and all but you should know I find myself equally as…unsettled by watching you leave and not be sure if you'll return in one piece," London emitted quietly but Elliot heard. 

Oh, how he heard.

"Why didn't you say so earlier? Wait a minute," Elliot said and left his hand hovering in the air as his thoughts created logic. London had lied too poorly. "You're not one to worry like that. It was you who told me I was perfectly safe with your gun, the guards, and constant surveillance outside. Why would you suddenly doubt your own reasoning?"

Elliot was sharper than most people believed. London shifted in the chair and decided to keep quiet about his recent panic attack when he realized he...

Oh god. He had done something 'Not Good'.

London looked up and disciplined his facial expressions. Calm and controlled, but friendly. "As you may have discovered after our many cases together, Elliot, I am a human no matter how hateful the thought is and I cannot always detach myself from my feelings. I know and trust the security that surrounds you but still I feel…"

"Afraid," Elliot finished for him and a corner of his mouth twitched. "Alright. But perhaps if you share this with me in the future we can avoid more rows. Otherwise by the end of this, neither of us will have a voice left."

London nodded and watched Elliot yawn. A quarter to nine.

He really was tired.

"I don't know about you, but I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Do you need anything?"

When London didn't reply, Elliot made to move to his bedroom but London suddenly called out, "Elliot, wait!" He returned and London's eyes traveled across the living room to him. There was something about Elliot but he couldn't put his finger on it.

What if he deduced...

"What is it?" a patient but tentative sigh came from Elliot and London shrugged internally. It was he who was a weird mess at the moment, not Elliot.

He was imagining things.

"I apologize for the way I behaved. It was not fair to you."

Elliot actually smiled and it made London happier. "It's fine." Then Elliot went to his bedroom and closed the door.

Around nine o'clock when London had eaten and experimented with acid on the pasta on his plate, he climbed into his bed and propped himself up with pillows so he could sit comfortably. The room was dark except for the streetlights peering through his window which he used to continue the search for clues about the masked man. The wind howled outside his window and London shivered at the thought of being outside in the snow.

Snow in London was always impractical for chases.

The Consulting Criminal returned to his map of potential criminals who could be involved in the poisoning of Elliot. The homeless network had knowledge of the Golem when he resided among them. Tomorrow London would invest some pounds and see if anyone recognized a tall, big man with a foreign accent.

At last London put his map down on the night table and laid down. And for once he felt sleep overcome him. Maybe all his reeling thoughts today was the cause.

An urgent, shrill noise woke him up and London jolted up to a seated position and his dazed mind cleared when he saw his phone was ringing. Within a second he had identified the caller and the time. Alexander, ten to eleven. His brother usually by now had taken a nightcap and gone to bed so his face wouldn't get wrinkles by late nights.

This was unusual.

"What do you want?" London rudely growled but instead of coming back with a clever retort, Alexander breathed evenly and it made London fully awake. "What?" he demanded and held his breath. What kind of breakthrough could possibly render his brother speechless? From what country did the man Samir had now identified come from?

"Brother mine, I'm in a car. The papers will want to write about this in the morning but we will stave them off until we have control over the situation."

"Alexander..." London warned, or urged his brother on, sensing there was something he didn't tell him.

"I was just informed of Inspector Cruz's mission this evening. I'm afraid there have been complications."

London sat up and lit the lamp beside the bed, an awful tension filling his being. Alexander continued almost with a gentle tone, "As it were, Mr. Stewart was heavily armed. He opened fire as the team approached the house..." 

The Consulting Criminal closed his eyes and held his breath.

"Brother, I'm sorry but Cruz has been shot."

London continued to listen but he couldn't hear. He saw but couldn't observe. Somehow he knew he was absorbing information from the words his brother said, that he deduced and came up with own details but all the same he felt surrounded by a constricting veil which kept him from that part of himself.

"ELLIOT!"

A dark room, a voice that was supposed to be his own but he wasn't sure. Without registering it, London had yelled towards Elliot's bedroom and called out for him.

Elliot was pulled from a deep sleep by a deeper than usual tone that was filled with an urgency he rarely heard. Before he even registered it, he flew up from his mattress and was out his bedroom door, with the same speed he had used during his military service and headed towards the source of the call.

"…taking him to the nearest hospital. That is all I know for now."

'Shut up!' London thought bitterly at his brother who in his mind was wasting time by still talking to him instead of getting to the Inspector.

"What's going on?" Elliot asked slowly and studied him carefully. London was off balance, wounded to the core and was well aware of the damage bullets could do, his own body knew damn well, so did Elliot's. 

Hundreds of scenarios played in his mind and he rushed to his Mind Palace to find the answer to every single one of them.

"Cruz..."

This wasn't the Consulting Criminal. He knew how to handle an emergency and what one should do. Yet now he was answer-less, like he always seemed to be when Elliot was harmed. Elliot made his way closer to London's bed, his frame showing nothing but comforting familiarity and concern. A white t-shirt and pajama pants was all he wore and his hair was ruffled although his eyes were sharp.

"Give it here," he ordered and London surrendered the phone and he tried to say something several times but no sound escaped him.

"Hello? Oh, Alexander. What? God dammit. Where? Okay. Yes."

Even though he was not psychically there, the blood of Inspector Cruz was on the Consulting Criminal's hands and if he died it would all be his fault and without Cruz to save him, Scotland Yard would finally have the proof they needed to arrest him and put him in jail for the rest of his short life.

"…I'm on my way to Wales now, along with some of my people. A specialized unit has been sent to the address to disarm Mr. Stewart. There's already a team there but they are only watching the house from afar to see whether he leaves the building," Alexander revealed quickly and left no room for pleasantries or superfluous wording.

The ice-man was in action.

Elliot found himself quickly returning to the nature of the soldier in his gloomy bedroom as the tale was unraveled.

Establish what had occurred, if possible or crucial also when, why, and how the crisis had happened and then be informed of what will happen.

Alexander was an experienced informant and not a traumatized soldier, thankfully.

Elliot maneuvered the phone in his palm efficiently and then looked over the Consulting Criminal who resembled a lost child by the wardrobe. The genius was the opposite of what he had been only a few hours ago but Elliot had learnt long ago that it was common for London to have violent mood swings.

"…don't know where Cruz was wounded but it appears it wasn't immediately fatal. The ambulance will take him to the nearest hospital where I will go once I've had a briefing with the group around Mr. Stewart's house. This requires delicacy, dealing with a rampant but decorated war hero who has attacked a police team. Thank goodness no-one else was hurt," Alexander said and when he paused, Elliot really caught a look of the Consulting Criminal.

His face was grey, the jaw tense and he trembled on the spot. Elliot realized he was in shock. With his free arm, he reached for the sleeve of the black dressing gown and tugged at it cautiously. "Holmes?"

"Bullets, armed, ambulance, Brynmawr, hospital, hospital, nearest hospital," London rambled with a raspy, frantic hiss.

"Shut up!" London screamed all of the sudden, his eyes shining with madness and Elliot stood his ground but the Consulting Criminal advanced on him and brutally yanked at his hand which held the phone before bringing it to his mouth.

"The nearest hospital for the cottage west of Brynmawr must be Neville Hall Hospital in Abergavenny! Don't you see? Stewart's former wife works there and who knows if she blatantly lied to Cruz's face as she charmed him when they met! Brother, you must stop her from being in the hospital!"

Elliot grimaced when London tightened his grip on his wrist but let him be.

Clearly his mind had finally come to a frightening conclusion in the midst of his terror.

"What on Earth do you mean?" Alexander asked but they all could tell he was listening with interest.

"Oh, they are so clever! Creating traps in Wales while we secure here from threats. Well done, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart," London grinned but it was not with glee and Elliot tried to slow him down.

"Wait, what? Now would be a good time to make sense."

"The nearest hospital lies in Abergavenny!" London repeated fervently. "Mr. Stewart is an anarchist; hates the government and everything that in his opinion belongs to it. So when suddenly patrol cars show up at his isolated home he decides what to do. They are easy targets for a veteran with fairly capable hands which are used of handling weapons. He shoots; and it doesn't matter whether it is to kill or to harm because he has a plan B in store as soon as a cop is hit but not deadly. Stewart has had plenty of time since the shooting to make a phone call in his cottage which is left alone until the units arrive. A phone call to his proclaimed ex-wife. Oh this is too bloody good!"

As if he was suddenly aware of the vice like grip he had on Elliot's wrist, London let go but pensively slid his thumb over Elliot's pulse point and soothed the sting before he whipped around and began to pace the room, talking out loud to Elliot and Alexander.

"I suspect Mrs. Stewart is in league with her officially former husband, maybe out of love, maybe out of shared animosity towards the pillars of the government but my point is she works at the hospital where they are taking Cruz and as a trusted nurse she knows her way in the building, and also how to get access to various items with which can be used to kill. So if Miles Stewart doesn't kill a cop outside his doorstep, his dear Alice can finish what he started and they will both be happy over the fact that there is one less police officer in the world."

London panted at the end but then gasped at the phone but Elliot kept it out of his reach, "Alexander, you must send people to the hospital now before Cruz arrives! Find Mrs. Stewart and keep her away from him!"

A cough came from the phone. "I don't dare say you are wrong, brother, but there are flaws in your thinking. What do you make of the couple's separation or the fact that the woman works day shift and in the cardiology section at that? She will be noticed should she try to sneak into the surgery and interfere."

Elliot held his breath and waited for London to explode again. "Noticed, but not stopped. She could have sabotaged everything that Cruz will need. There will be time later to determine whether she is innocent or not but I will not risk the Inspector's life by overlooking her potential as a murderer."

The Consulting Criminal then launched himself at Elliot, probably to snatch the phone from him and scream some more at his brother but this time Elliot was ready. He jumped out of the way, swirled around as London still moved forward, and then threw himself at London's back, only having enough time to bring up his free arm to London's face before they crashed into the wall. London gasped and Elliot grunted when his arm took most of the impact and protected the Consulting Criminal's head although his body slammed against the hard surface.

And after that action, Elliot felt something change. London's posture went from stiff to soft, like he was lulling Elliot into a false sense of security by appearing to admit defeat only to lash out once more. He spared some moments to catch his breath instead of hyperventilating, and Elliot secured him between the wall and himself before lifting the hand with the phone.

"Dare I guess what happened over there?" Alexander said with a little curiosity and Elliot breathed hard. "Just do what your brother asked of you, please. Send a car to the hospital and guard Cruz as well as keep an eye on Mrs. Stewart. We can't afford making any more mistakes when it's the Inspector's life on the line. I will take care of your brother and find transport to Wales as soon as possible. London will want to personally see the woman and her ex-husband and visit Cruz."

"No, Elliot. You and my brother will stay exactly where you are and I specifically forbid you to leave the city. Do not try to defy or evade me because I have instructed your bodyguards to stop you by any means if you choose to do so," Alexander explained calmly but that only made him and his power more terrifying to Elliot. 

"Why?" he asked coolly and London turned his head towards the source of the sound.

"Anarchists, Elliot. They form great networks over parts of the underground that even eludes the government. And as I'm sure you have seen, they can be drastic, ruthless, and very dangerous. From what I've see, there could be a possibility that some of them are involved in these ugly episodes of violence towards yourself and Inspector Cruz. If they are expecting your travel to Wales after the attempted murder of a police officer you both know, they could have planned some kind of disruption on the road," Alexander sighed and then Elliot heard him shift in his car.

"That sounds highly unlikely. After all, you doubt London's suspicion of Mrs. Stewart's motives and now you're trying to make me believe in a conspiracy that includes every anarchist in England. And if there's going to be a fucking ambush in the dark, why are you going by car? I'm sorry but we will go to Wales. Your brother needs to see the Inspector and I will not stop him," Elliot pointed out.

Alexander replied with utter sternness, "I am not in a cab with thin windows and a low-educated driver. I will be alright should anything happen but you two will not risk your lives over this. Trust me with this investigation and take care of my brother in the meantime."

An impolite click came from the phone and Elliot let out a chuckle of disbelief.

THE British Government had hung up on him. 

That was something new.

Elliot's moment of shock was interrupted when the Consulting Criminal stirred and Elliot became aware of the fact that he still had him pinned to the wall, not treating him as an enemy but as a fellow soldier who needed stability in the chaos, physical closeness as comfort. Still, his arm tingled, perhaps it would bruise thanks to the sharp angles of London's face, and he could sense the Consulting Criminal's adrenaline was leaving him.

Hopefully.

Worry for London washed away Elliot's annoyance with the older Holmes, the awareness of London's tall figure pressed into his front, and the warmth that inevitably spread where only thin fabrics, not air, kept them apart. Elliot staggered back half a step and dumped the now silent phone.

"You okay now?"

Elliot thought his voice sounded thick but with what? Concern? Compassion? Softness? London inhaled sharply, still facing the wall, and his pale, long fingers touched the wall as if smoothing out wrinkles.

"I told him." The Consulting Criminal replied broken.

"What?" Elliot asked and when London unexpectedly turned around, his knees buckled and Elliot threw an arm around his waist to keep him from falling to the hard floor. The Consulting Criminal crumbled and shattered as he leaned into Elliot's chest.

"Just breathe." Elliot tried to reassure London but already felt warm drops seep through his t-shirt.

"Data! Data! Data! I told him." London choked out, the trauma at last pouring out from him. And Elliot immediately hugged him, all previous thoughts forgotten. Instead he held the world's greatest and only Consulting Criminal, as he let go of the anguish for a bleeding friend far away who had been caught in some obscure scheme that Elliot couldn't believe existed and which yet seemed to thrive on the increasing bloodshed.

And Elliot's own misery was forced to disappear for the moment.

Those who were behind this fucking madness that had broken London by going after first Elliot and now Cruz, Elliot would by legal or illegal means make them pay. But first he had a Consulting Criminal to help.

In a hushed tone he emitted, "Come on. You'll figure this out, you always do. There is no-one smarter than you. Time to prove it again."

He wished he could guarantee that Cruz would live but in reality, he had to wait with London for an unpredictable amount of time until Alexander or Carlton called back with more information.

It would be a hellish night to remember.

Two hours and not a message from anyone.

Elliot rubbed his eyes and shifted on the armrest of the couch. He had placed himself there for strategic reasons. If he avoided the soft, too comfortable seats, he wouldn't fall asleep. Furthermore, he could easily get on his feet and grab London should he decide to shoot up from the couch and resume his pacing. Elliot wanted him to save his energy until it was really needed.

And Elliot's position made him a head taller than the defeated genius who sat beside him with his legs pulled up and his dressing gown wrapped around the knees. Elliot had draped an arm over London's shoulders, he just needed the Consulting Criminal to realize he wasn't alone right now.

A tired head leaned back against the couch and Elliot glanced at the closed eyes which were rimmed with redness and glistening moisture, the ashen cheeks, the sad mouth. 

"Elliot." Ragged, jaded, not louder than a sigh. London was exhausted but remained worried.

"Yes?" Elliot whispered.

"What does a captain do when he and his company are suddenly surrounded by enemies who shoot at them?" The question was not what Elliot had expected but he would answer nonetheless.

"The commanding officer finds the most safe place as fast as possible, a temporary stronghold; maybe a house and stays there until he has more information and control over the situation."

London went on with a quiet and unsure voice, "And when snipers are taking out one man after the other, leaving fewer and fewer soldiers by the captain's side?" Elliot frowned and it felt like he had been punched in the stomach. This wasn't a random inquiry in order to flee from the great, frightening thought that must swirl around in London's head just like they did in Elliot's.

His voice sounded unsettled as he croaked, "Then you…you fight back, order assistance from the artillery, look for the muzzle flashes from the enemy and fire at them."

The artillery; Alexander, Carlton and Scotland Yard. They knew of this, could help Elliot and London. The lonely dog tag rattled on the chain as Elliot turned his t-shirt clad torso and looked beyond the man near him. Two half-empty teacups on the table beside a quiet phone, removed blood stains on the other end of the couch, a dark flat void of light. This case had reached inside their home, disturbed the cozy haven with blood, brutality and shocks.

London wriggled and his hands clasped his knees as he finally he opened his eyes but only stared up at the ceiling.

"And what if the artillery is attacked, has to defend itself far away while the captain is trapped in the house? What happens when he is the only one alive and running out of ammunition?" he mumbled and Elliot shuddered from the eerily calmness from London.

He shook the man's shoulders and gained his attention. With a firm tone he replied, "The artillery is too important to be allowed to fall into enemy hands that easily. There is always help. The soldier mustn't surrender. There is only pain and death waiting for him if he throws down his weapon and becomes a prisoner. Keep fighting, protect yourself, and think of a clever way to get the hell out of the situation."

A single tear left the dark lashes and tumbled down London's cheek. "I…I don't know what to do. I have no person to deduce, no lead, I can't figure out who the man with the poison was, nor stop the violence. Where is the logic in this?"

London stopped himself but Elliot understood.

"Hey. Don't talk like that and don't you dare give up. We need you and your fantastic mind. You are useful and I know you'll crack this riddle as soon as something starts to make sense. I know you feel like shit now but don't doubt yourself. Ever."

Elliot spoke with a clear voice and gazed intensely into London's ice-blue eyes, compelling him to listen. "You are not the surrendering soldier! You are too bloody genius to be that fellow. For as long as I've known you, you've never been resigned, obedient, or submissive. You've never waved a fucking white flag so don't give me that rubbish. You are not giving up because that isn't you. You fight, you get the last word, and you win!"

It seemed like London hung onto everything Elliot said since his eyes were trained on his mouth. Elliot balled up his free fist and pressed it into his thigh as he willed his friend to see the hope and strength he was sending out to the Consulting Criminal.

"I do," London emitted but while those words normally were delivered by a cold, detached sneer, they now sounded unsure and quiet; the opposite of the London Elliot knew. But the he saw a glint in the eyes, a spark. London was now summoning the means he needed to keep going. He wasn't entirely defeated and that made Elliot release the breath he wasn't aware he had held.

"Elliot? I need, and no offense, a distraction. Tell me a story from Afghanistan. "

There were no layers around the Consulting Criminal now. He wasn't ashamed to hide his emotional state and Elliot wouldn't tease him for it.

On the contrary, he thought London was fascinating when he was this open and honest.

Almost human.

"Okay. Some of the medical personnel had visited the medical school in the city called Jalalabad in the Nangarhar province, eastern Afghanistan, to give the students there advice," Elliot began as he recalled the memory. "They showed us the establishment and the atmosphere was peaceful and civil because we were all doctors and nurses sharing medical techniques and knowledge like at a conference. Afterwards, my group said goodbye and we drove up to the mountains that lie west of the city. If we'd turned to the east, we would have ended up right in front of Talibans."

Elliot snickered and although London didn't join in but he did smile a little. His breathing was calmer and Elliot found himself relaxing a little more.

"As I'm sure you know, not all of the country is a desert. There are diverse nature zones with different climate, and in our area, oaks grew in a forest and even though we had to keep our eyes open for enemies, the ride was still great. I know the oaks had hard leaves but I swear I could smell their scent."

"Sclerophyll," London interjected and Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Sclerophyll is a type of vegetation that has hard leaves, short internodes, the distance between leaves along the stem, and leaf orientation parallel or oblique to direct sunlight. The word comes from the Greek 'sklēros', 'hard' and phyllon 'leaf'.

"Amazing," Elliot praised by habit. It was a very good sign that the Consulting Criminal was coming back to himself.

"We were very high up so the view between the trees was breathtaking. Then the others needed to pee so we stopped and I jumped off the jeep to stretch my legs. I looked at the other side of the road, where no-one stood, and saw this big, blooming Rhododendron. The bush was as big as the jeep's wheel but for Afghanistan and an English soldier who'd seen so many terrible things, that bush was bloody amazing."

Elliot saw the soft violet flowers before his eyes, how they had hung heavily on the seemingly fragile but apparently hardy branches. "Violet flowers everywhere, and beauty and it just sort of spoke of the wonderful country that Afghanistan was, because at that time it was untouched by the war and…"

Elliot halted his words and felt a lump in his throat as the memory came back to him with full force. 

But he finished the story.

"And yet that Rhododendron reminded me of home, of England. As I'm sure you're aware of, we have those bushes here too, in gardens on the countryside, in enormous pots and in Richmond Park. I was homesick after that but the memory of the Rhododendron remained dear to me."

When Elliot stopped talking and silence filled the room for a while, he looked and saw London staring at him positively enthralled.

He was saving this story on his hard drive and finding a room for it in his Mind Palace.

Elliot felt moved by that but couldn't explain why.

The phone on the table rang and all together shattering the silence that had once again fallen between the Consulting Criminal and Elliot.

London's eyes flew from Elliot to the item and within seconds before he caught himself and reached for the phone, grateful for the distraction.

"Yes?"

"You certainly sound more collected now. Very good. I have information," Alexander said in his politician voice and London thought of Cruz which once again ignited his worry and distress.

"Don't play games with me. Not now. Tell me what you know," he fumed and from the corner of his eye he saw Elliot angle his body sideways, towards him. He wanted to listen too, but for some reason London was hesitant on placing the phone between them, because he didn't want Elliot to hear anything awful. Not after the tale from Afghanistan, the fire, the rat poison in Elliot's veins, the single dog tag. Should it come to that, London wished to spare Elliot from more horror, or at least tell him in his own words. 

He wasn't protective, only considerate, or so he told himself.

"Inspector Cruz is now safe and tended to. Two bullets hit him, one in the right upper arm and the other his abdomen. That was why he bled so much and after a small transfusion he has stabilized. Though, he will not be able to speak to you just yet."

London swallowed dryly and ignored Elliot's impatient gesture to make him give a hint of what Alexander said. "What do you mean? What's the matter with him?" London exclaimed with panic as images of Cruz being unconscious or having a breathing tube in his throat. His hands started to shake. 

Alexander gave a chuckle.

"No, no, you misinterpreted, brother mine. The Inspector is still very much sedated since the operation and I've been informed he will wake up in about four hours. I will be here when he does." London gave a relieved sigh as Elliot held out his palms to emphasize his incomprehension.

"He's fine," London emitted before addressing Alexander again. "What about Mr. Stewart and his wife? Do you have them?"

"Yes, of course we do and we've arrested them. As I told Elliot earlier, I do know how to handle these things. From what I can tell, it appears Mrs. Stewart is innocent but my people are investigating her history thoroughly just to be safe. But she will stay at the police station overnight, as will her former husband. He on the other hand is very, how shall I put it, interesting."

London considered leaving the couch and put some distance between himself and Elliot but suspected from his position that he would give chase and stop him.

Just like he had done before.

"Mr. Stewart is quite inebriated and we can't extract anything from him except some rather colorful language. We will wait till morning when he is sober but in the meantime we will check his weapons and all the data he has collected. We will have answers soon."

"Brother, I need something to work with if I am to stay here. Share something with me or I'm coming to Wales and you and father will be down a few employees!" London threatened.

"Do not test me. I will call you back in the morning."

Alexander hung up and London scowled. But then he felt the onslaught of overwhelming emotions. It all came back to him. He had let down his walls before Elliot to for once be…vulnerable.

The same thing he felt now when he thought of Cruz.  

A sudden terror made his grip around the phone relax and it clattered on the table.

London buried his head in his hands and his damn eyes stung with unshed tears. Cruz had come too close to death because London did not want to listen to him. "I'm…I'm responsible for what happened to Cruz. He was shot because I chose to ignore him and what he was telling me."

London angrily rubbed his eyes before lifting his head. Elliot carried an equally anguished expression as he shook his head. "No, no, no. It wasn't your fault! It was Stewart, not you. I know it, Alexander and your father know it and Cruz knows it. We don't blame you. If anything, I have a part in this as well."

London stared at him with confusion. Elliot sighed. "In the hospital, when Cruz announced he was going to Wales, I should have repeated how dangerous he was."

At that, London elevated from the couch and loomed over Elliot before he managed to get on his feet. 

"Stop it!" he mumbled gently, though with pain, "The self-sacrificing martyr role doesn't suit you."

Elliot's eyes turned to steel. "Neither does it become you. So can we please stop berating ourselves for something that we can't change? The important thing is that Cruz is alive and that Stewart and his wife are in custody."

London remembered what he had said before Alexander interrupted. Now that his shock over Cruz had subdued, the more place there was in his mind for embarrassment and insecurity.

He withdrew from Elliot.

"I must know what information Stewart has. I need the notes from the interrogations of Samir, and of course list every store, in London that sell gorilla masks," London rapidly burst out, his mind beginning to spin faster and faster.

"No," Elliot said firmly and still trembling, London ignored the brilliance in his brown eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous. I must work. I have wasted so much time."

"Stop it and that's an order. You are not going anywhere. We can work on the case tomorrow but now we'll take it easy. You have enough data to process for the next few hours." London attempted to get past Elliot, even nudged him in the side with a mean elbow so Elliot grunted which gave London time to pass him. The Consulting Criminal marched towards the front door. An unyielding pair of arms wrapped around his lean frame and pulled him away, moved him to the wall where Elliot secured him after having turned him around.

London grew even more frustrated. 

"Elliot..." London snarled when a palm slammed into the wall and silenced him. Elliot's face was set in a mask of sternness.

"I said no!" he shouted but London didn't want to hear that.

"I need to fix my mistake!" London roared and noticed with contempt how his voice broke at the end. Elliot came closer and he had red cheeks from after the short wrestle and his breath came out in shallow puffs.

"Soldiers." London understood the metaphor but still wasn't about to obey just yet.

Elliot wiped his forehead with a seemingly heavy arm and his shoulders slumped and the Consulting Criminal gestured at the couch.

"Take the couch. I promise I will stay and not force you to struggle with me anymore."

Elliot didn't reply and only stumbled over to the couch and sat down, and exhaled so loudly it tugged at something inside London.

This soldier carried too heavy a burden so that the other soldier, London, wouldn't have to.

Interesting.