“Stamps.”

The word was leaden, London’s bored, polished baritone emphasizing the ‘m’ and the ‘p’, lips pursing and releasing in a way that might have distracted Elliot under other circumstances.

The young man sat in the client’s chair nodded nervously, casting a quick glance at Elliot as though for explanation or support, and he could see the words “how did you know?” forming, but London – as usual – went right into the explanation.

“Thin, pale,” the Consulting Criminal began, and Elliot resisted pointing out that applied to London just as much, “don’t get out much and when you do, it’s only travel to go back indoors. The hunch to your shoulders suggests you spend a lot of time sitting and looking at something – something small, perhaps through a magnifying lens or a microscope. Could be both. Steady hands – very steady – an important trait for your… pastime. You work a lot with your hands, and one might expect evidence of dryness or washing, but of course not, because you wouldn’t risk getting all those oils on something so valuable, so gloves. Cotton, though, given the state of your skin and the possibility of abrasive damage – even ever so slightly – from latex or nitrile.”

London paused for breath – a rare feat, Elliot thought, and he could see the astonishment on the younger man’s face, the rush of surprise and admiration lining up to be voiced.

“But your lips,” London continued, and Elliot watched the stamp enthusiast deflate a bit as he was preemptively silenced. “Dry, cracked, used to being licked. You’re a purist,” London spoke the word as if he were holding it at arm’s length, “none of the self-adhesive variety for you. And that’s not where the interesting ones are anyway, are they? All the new ones are rubbish, so few flaws, no real character."

“You’re fastidious, but it doesn’t extend beyond the collecting… why waste your time? Friends all the same bent, no girlfriend, visit the family only on holidays or when pressed into it, job is good enough to support your interests without being too demanding or involve too much work with the public. Or with anyone. Something equally as finicky, numbers – accounting, most likely. Not for a large firm. Nothing that would require too much reporting of your time, as long as you get the job done, no one asks any questions or cares too much about your whereabouts. Quiet of course, but your other living habits… cluttered, at a guess – and not much of a guess – not much consideration for anything else, easier not to cook because it takes time and takeaway doesn’t. Work space kept neat out of necessity, nothing else gets the same consideration. You don’t socialize much beyond your circle of fellow collectors, but aren’t bothered by noise around you – probably don’t notice. Excellent concentration skills, to the exclusion of all else."

“Oh, and your sister works in a flower shop somewhere near here.”

The younger man started, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“How did you know that?”

Elliot couldn’t resist rolling his eyes, pursing his lips to contain a sigh.

“You mentioned it in your initial letter,” London replied, waving a hand vaguely, projecting boredom, but Elliot could see him congratulating himself internally on being so clever.

“But not the other stuff!” the young man protested.

“Elementary deduction, really,” The Consulting Criminal sniffed. “We’ll let you know.”

“But I haven’t even seen it!”

“Oh,” London said, blinking, nonplussed. “Yes. Of course. Elliot?”

Elliot pushed himself to his feet, shooting London a pointed look that was, as usual, completely ignored, and beckoned to the potential tenant to follow him downstairs. He showed the young man – whose name he hadn’t bothered to remember – dutifully around the flat. Given London’s assessment of their visitor, Elliot wasn’t really surprised that there were no exclamations of delight at the space or the lighting.

“Is there a form I need to fill out?” the young man asked after the brief tour was complete. Elliot gave his head a shake, putting on his best reassuring expression.

“No,” he said, all false encouragement in his tone. "Holmes is brilliant at this sort of thing. Well, you’ve seen. We have a couple more people coming to look,” that was a familiar refrain, and a lie, “but we’ll let you know by the end of the day tomorrow.”

There was a thank you, an awkward handshake (which Elliot always found annoying), and a rush of relief when he was able to close the front door behind the soon-to-be disappointed prospective tenant. He lingered near the door, half wondering if he was listening for the young man to walk away, half lulled by the sound of traffic from the street outside. Something in the atmosphere had lifted, and he hated that it felt like this every time he saw someone out, knowing full well that London had found a reason (or reasons) for denying them the ground floor apartment.

It was relief, pure and simple, and Elliot avoided thinking about what that meant, distracting himself by trying to work out what London would be up to on the floor above him. The sound of footsteps wasn’t a good enough indicator; the Consulting Criminal always threw himself into something after a viewing, but it was never the same thing. As it deliberately avoiding a pattern of activity could stop reality from encroaching.

They needed to let the ground floor. They’d needed to let it for months. Elliot knew that. He knew London knew that. They’d placed an advert, they’d interviewed a handful of people.

All of them rejected by the Consulting Criminal’s caustic insight.

And the apartment still stood empty.

Elliot closed the door, shutting out that contemplation, grateful for the familiar irritation of London tearing the living room apart in search of something.

"Holmes–”

“Boring!” his partner snarled, flinging an angry glare Elliot’s way, grey eyes glinting. “How can they stand it? To be so bloody boring?”

“I bet he doesn’t think he is,” Elliot sighed, folding his arms, playing the game willingly.

“Stamps,” London spat, still-short curls bouncing as he shook his head once, vehemently. “Why? What’s the point?”

“You mean, what’s the point of being obsessed with something to the exclusion of everything else?” Elliot asked.

“Precisely!” London snapped, flinging his arms wide, and Elliot had to bite down on a pointed remark, knowing if London caught it in his expression, he would ignore it. His talent for self-deception was almost as great as his talent for the observation of others – and Elliot didn’t quite let himself follow that train of thought into what it might say about him.

“Stamps,” his partner muttered again, overturning a couch cushion and making a disgusted noise when whatever he thought he was looking for failed to materialize.

“I’ll just get them, shall I?” Elliot sighed.

“I don’t want a cigarette!” London snarled. Elliot arched an eyebrow; that probably meant he did, but wasn’t willing to cop to it because he had suggested it. It was – Elliot had discovered – an effective way of keeping the Consulting Criminal off nicotine.

When it worked.

Which wasn’t always.

Reverse psychology was tricky with London, who would recognize it being used against him at inconvenient moments.

“Tea, then?” Elliot asked.

“Fine,” London muttered without pausing in his apparently futile search. Elliot considered asking what their apartment had done to deserve such treatment, but he recognized London’s moods from long experience, and there was no humor in this one. He made tea without comment, earning only a glare for his efforts when London snatched the proffered mug from him.

He sank into his chair, watching as the Consulting Criminal redid the couch enough to flop himself onto it, long legs sprawled in front of him, and somehow managing not to spill tea all over himself.

“Stamps,” London muttered again, eyes casting away from Elliot’s.

“At least he’d be quiet,” Elliot pointed out, without any real conviction to his words.

“Hateful,” London said against the rim of his mug, and Elliot allowed himself the moment of distraction watching full lips close over the porcelain. He wondered where London’s mood dropped him on his personal physical tolerance spectrum. Elliot usually had a very good idea, but there were times – these times, after interviews – where he found it difficult to judge.

The lines of tensions that jutted against his partner’s neck answered the question for him. London probably wasn’t even aware of his own response, although he may have been aware of the line of thought behind Elliot’s gaze.

Elliot shelved it, watching London relax minutely. He wondered, passingly, if he should do up a catalog of the Consulting Criminal’s reactions to him.

Comparing it to the mental catalog London kept of Elliot’s responses might distract him.

For five minutes.

“Well, he was better than the last one,” Elliot offered. London didn’t deign to answer, curling his lip and slumping further down, resting the tea cup precariously on the arm of the couch. At Elliot’s slight wince, London huffed an aggrieved sigh and snatch the mug up again, shooting Elliot another glare.

Elliot pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room to sink down beside his partner, who stiffened and pulled back when Elliot dipped his hand into the pocket of the blue silk dressing gown. Grey eyes flared a warning Elliot had already read, and he pulled several pieces of scrunched up paper.

“Art theft?” he suggested, earning a pointed look in return. “Cheating spouse?” London huffed a sigh, managing to slump down even further, long toes pulling at the rug. “Missing dog?”

“Oh for god’s sake,” London muttered. “Does it glow in the dark?”

“Doesn’t say,” Elliot replied, smiling slightly. “Insurance fraud?”

“Who does these people think I am?” London snapped.

“The world's only Consulting Criminal,” Elliot replied.

“Hasn’t there at least been a murder?” London demanded, taking several pieces of paper from Elliot. “Liar, liar, adulterer, liar and adulterer, thief, delusional, making it up, hysterical, and another adulterer.”

“What is the world coming to?” Elliot asked, unable to repress the small smile quirking on his lips despite the dark glower London threw his way.

“Peaceful and law abiding,” the Consulting Criminal snorted.

London waved the empty tea mug at him.

“Words?” Elliot suggested.

“Please, may I have another cup?” London asked, rolling his eyes.

“Make it yourself, genius.”

“You’re going to the kitchen,” London pointed out.

“To put mine away. Why don’t you get yourself dressed? I could use a walk.”

“What is your obsession with air?” London muttered, folding his arms, mug buried in the crook of his elbow.

“Breathing’s boring till you stop doing it,” Elliot replied.

“Unwise to theorize without all the facts.”

“This isn’t an experiment either of us gets to undertake, again” Elliot said, putting a steely hint in his tone – he never really knew, not with London.

“Are you coming, or are you going to sit there and sulk all day?”

London huffed, rolling onto his side, back to the room – and still holding his mug.

“I won’t be long. An hour at most. Feel free to deduce my route and join me if you want.”

The Consulting Criminal grunted, burying his face in a cushion, and Elliot knew he’d be on his own today. Occasionally, the need for company won out over London’s mood swings. The Consulting Criminal would catch him up in the park. Elliot never commented on it – London still needed his space too.

He made his way to Regent’s Park, wandering the paths without any real destination in mind, watching boaters on the lake and the other pedestrians with only vague interest. London would be picking apart the details of their lives within seconds, but Elliot enjoyed the anonymity sometimes. It was nice not to be immediately recognized, too. When he was on his own, he often went unremarked; London’s fame (or notoriety, Elliot supposed with a faint smirk) had grown exceptionally.

Elliot didn’t mind the work that brought in, but it was relaxing not to have people stare.

When the sensation that had driven him from the apartment eased, he settled at a cafe, ordering himself a tea and something small to eat. The sun was warm enough to offset the cool breeze, and the quiet murmur of voices and traffic faded into a pleasant background hum. The moment of relaxation was so perfect that Elliot wasn’t the least bit surprised when a voice broke the peaceful silence.

“Paris, Elliot!” London exclaimed before Elliot could even say hello – not that the daft genius he called his partner ever bothered with conversational norms when it came to speaking with him.

“Um, nope. Still in England,” Elliot replied, lips quirking into a smile.

“What?” London demanded. “Not you, don’t be absurd.”

“Ah,” Elliot said. “You’re taking me on a holiday then?”

There was a pause, the suggestion of held breath – Elliot could practically smell the smoke as the Consulting Criminal raced to switch mental tracks and figure out a way to placate his partner without disappointing him.

He grinned.

“What’s the case?” he asked.

“You need to book us tickets.” Elliot was sure he caught a hint of relief behind the order, although it might have been wishful thinking. “Use Alexander's account, I don’t want to be sitting in the cramped section.”

“Don’t you think he’ll notice?” Elliot asked, the smile still playing on his lips as he gathered his things to head home with the Consulting Criminal beside him.

“And a hotel,” London continued as if Elliot hadn’t spoken. “Who knows where you’d put us if left to your own devices.”

“Somewhere we can afford?” Elliot suggested. In Paris, last minute? he added to himself.

“Don’t be ridiculous; use Alexander's account for that, too.”

“Does he have some account just for you to keep you happy?”

There was a derisive snort from beside Elliot.

“I’m sure he’d like to think he does,” London sniffed. “That’s not the account we’ll be using. I’ll pack your things.”

“Oh no you bloody won’t!” Elliot snapped back, picking up his pace. “I don’t even want to think what you’d bother packing for me – or what you’d leave out.”

“I’m a genius, Elliot” London replied with feigned coolness. “I can be relied upon to pack a suitcase.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said with a grin, still keeping up his quick stride toward Baker Street.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

"You're joking, right?"

The look London shot him from across the small space in the cab would have been enough to turn the atmosphere frosty if Elliot hadn't known his partner so well.

"Do you imagine I'd travel to Paris as a joke?" the Consulting Criminal drawled.

"As a ruse, maybe," Elliot replied.

"A ruse for what?" London demanded by way of reply. "This is a case!"

"This," Elliot snapped, waving the letter for emphasis, "sat on your desk for months after you decided it was boring and the author was too French!"

"Don't be absurd." The offhanded tone made Elliot repress a growl. "If you'd brought this to my attention, I'd remember. This is the kind of case I've been waiting for!"

"What? Wait– just– no. First of all, you opened it and translated it for me – it's written in French! I don't speak French!"

"That's your handwriting," London said, nodding to the notes Elliot had jotted down after the fact.

"Based on your translation! I just said I don't speak French! I know it's hard to listen to the sound of other people's voices– this is all on you," he snapped. "You opened it, you told me what it said, you decided it was boring because – if I remember right – some employee stole it or he binned it, because that's exactly what people do with priceless family heirlooms."

"It's not priceless," London said with infuriating reasonableness. "It says 'precious gemstone' right in the letter."

"It's been six bloody months," Elliot sighed. "Why is it just now interesting?"

"It was always interesting," London sniffed. "Just because you couldn't appreciate it at the time…"

"Talking about yourself in the second person now?" Elliot inquired, arching an eyebrow.

"I don't see why you're so upset. You are getting a free trip to Paris out of this. City of Love, if memory serves."

"Yes, because that's precisely why you got it in your head to go to Paris this very minute."

"It was at least an hour ago," London replied with a scowl.

"It's because you were bored out of your tree and Greg's probably sick of answering your whiny phone calls."

"I haven't got a tree," London replied primly. "And my phone calls are always insightful and informative."

"Sure they are," Elliot muttered, shaking his head – truth be told, it wasn't too difficult to understand why London had snatched up the first thing he could right now. How this particular letter had ended up being the first thing London had seen had been somewhat of a mystery until Elliot had got home to find the apartment more or less turned upside down.

The Consulting Criminal claimed it was 'tidying up', which was Holmes-code for 'I need to not be thinking right now'. The letter, which had likely been resting innocuously in some forgotten pile, had probably only caught his attention because of Elliot's handwriting on it.

Better than nothing, Elliot thought.

Elliot himself had found the letter intriguing back when London had first opened it and declared it boring and pointless, but he also knew when not to push it.

And he had to admit London was right. He was getting a free trip to Paris out of it –although Elliot wondered what Alexander would say when he saw the bill. Since they were going anyway, he was fairly certain he could wrangle an extra day or two out of his partner after London had dazzled everyone with his brilliance and was soaring on a post-case high.

He flipped the envelope over, eyes skimming the quick, sure handwriting of the return address.

Georges Alexandre
125 rue Vieille-du-Temple
75003
Paris

"He does know we're coming, right?"

"He's been expecting us for six months," London murmured, waving a hand vaguely.

"In other words, you haven't bothered to contact him."

"He contacted me. He should be grateful we're bothering to come at all."

Elliot carefully didn't point out that a simple phone call could have saved them the trouble and that London solved most of his cases from the comfort of their home. It was precisely that location the Consulting Criminal was trying to avoid.

Could get that holiday even earlier, he mused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. All sorts of things could have happened between Georges sending the letter and now – including the missing gem being recovered, or the client himself simply not being available.

Elliot forewent mentioning that as well; he was taking his free trip to Paris no matter what.

If there was nothing for them to do, he'd find more creative ways to distract London. If there was a case, with fellow criminals to chase and police to harass, well then, all the better.

They garnered more attention than Elliot had anticipated; London scowled through it – more, Elliot thought, because he had to share his limelight with Elliot, who took compliments about their work with delight. A muttered word to London had him if not smiling for photographs, then at least not wearing his 'everyone else is an idiot' glower.

Elliot dealt with the comments and questions.

When they made it onto the plane, he sank gratefully into the (relatively) generous seat, thankful that London had insisted his brother foot the bill. The attendants in the small business class cabin were more discreet than the other passengers had been in the terminal, but he caught a couple of knowing looks regardless.

He enjoyed the relative anonymity – not to mention the free drinks – while it lasted; Elliot had serious doubts that the older Holmes sibling would let them travel back the same way.

At very least, there'd be a frozen bank account.

More likely, Elliot suspected wryly, they'd be summarily rounded up by some shadowy government agency.

"Don't be absurd," London said when Elliot voiced this thought. "If he doesn't know by now, he will do by the time we've landed. This time, he'll know where we are."

Whatever celebrity they had in England apparently didn't extend to France – they were waved through customs by a disinterested agent who glanced only sparingly at their English passports and asked no questions.

Elliot wondered – privately – if the lack of attention would put London off just as much as its overabundance, but there was a determined spring to his partner's step.

He was the case.

Even if the client didn't know it yet.

"We need to find the cab stands," Elliot murmured as they wound their way into the main concourse. "I don't suppose you'd consent to take a coach. There is one, you know. Just as a point of interest."

London's scowl was answer enough, and made Elliot grin.

"Not necessary," his partner said.

"What, the coach?"

"Or the cab."

"We're going to walk, then? Or maybe Alexander's arranged a car for us? Out of the goodness of his heart?"

"I shudder to think of the day he starts making loving gestures, Elliot. No, we're neither walking nor getting a driver. I've arranged a vehicle for us."

"You're going to drive? On French roads?"

"You make it sound as if they differ significantly from other roads."

"They do drive on the right here, you know. And you can't just decide not to because you're English."

"I know how to drive in France," London replied.

Elliot raised his eyebrows and grinned when London subjected him to a short, stony silence as they approached the desk. He cast a questioning look at his partner when the agent asked them to wait before disappearing briefly, but London refused to meet his gaze, projecting an air of innocence that never failed to leave Elliot even more suspicious.

"The keys, monsieur, and, of course, two helmets as you requested."

"A motorcycle?" Elliot asked as two polished black helmets were set on the counter in front of them, shaded visors gleaming.

"Very well deduced," London replied, corners of his lips twitching smugly.

"Wait– can you even drive a motorcycle?"

"Would I be renting one if I couldn't?"

"You?" Elliot asked. "Yes. You're a madman behind the wheel. Why do you think your drivers license was revoked by your own bloody brother?"

"This has two fewer wheels than a typical vehicle, so you should be pleased. Of course, if you'd rather drive…"

"No, no," Elliot said, refusing to admit he couldn't actually do it – not that London wouldn't have figured that out, but he wasn't giving his partner the actual satisfaction, "it was your mad plan, you see it through. Just, you know, don't get us killed."

By the time they reached the hotel, it wasn't London that Elliot was worried about causing an accident, but himself.

He'd settled for holding his partner loosely around the waist – it felt somewhat more secure than the hand holds – and it hadn't escaped even his observational abilities that his grip had tightened during the trip.

Not out of nervousness. Driving a Land Rover off road through possibly IED-infested terrain had prepared him for almost anything, even a motorcycle trip through the heart of Paris.

He did know how to drive a motorcycle in Paris, and very expertly as far as Elliot's limited experience let him judge. They wove smoothly in and out of traffic, racing down the motorway towards the city's center, zipping seamlessly along side other bikes. It became harder and harder to pay attention to the sights and landmarks around them as he focused on the way London moved with the bike, as if he were born to it, as if it was an extension of his body. It obeyed him without question, slowing, speeding up, slipping into the free spaces between cars or lanes.

It didn't help Elliot's resolve one bit when London pulled the helmet off after they'd come to a halt, long overdue for a cut, dark curls tumbling haphazardly around his face.

Elliot forced his concentration to untying their overnight bags and following his partner into the hotel. The lobby itself distracted him, if only briefly, as he drank in what Alexander was unwittingly paying for and listened to London negotiate for their room key, all while certain the reservation would have been cancelled and they'd be evicted unceremoniously.

But if Alexander knew by now, he was either choosing to let them get away with it, or was waiting to see where this went. Knowing the older Holmes, it was probably the latter. Spontaneous generosity wasn't particularly his style, especially with his baby brother.

If he could leverage this for something in the future, Elliot knew full well that he would.

Elliot was even all right until they reached the room, but the sight of London dropping the two helmets casually on the bed undid him again.

"You bloody do this on purpose, don't you?" he growled.

"Do what?" London said with his oh-so-innocent expression.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I haven't the faintest idea," The Consulting Criminal replied.

"The motorcycle, the–" Elliot gestured wordlessly at London, fumbling for the right word, "You."

"You owe me," Elliot said, crossing his arms, adopting his best captain's stance and glare.

"I do?" London asked, arching an eyebrow. "And what, precisely, do I owe you?"

"Bringing me to Paris, getting the motorcycle, being all… exactly what you always are."

"Myself?" his partner suggested.

"That."

"We're on a case."

"And after the case, we'll still be in Paris."

"Excellently observed," his partner murmured, a small smile playing on his lips, a familiar gleam in his grey eyes. Elliot drew another deep breath to keep himself composed, firming his military stance even more. "I suspect you'll have ample opportunity to collect on your debt. But for now,"

London tossed one of the helmets across the small space, and Elliot fumbled to catch it.

"We have work to do."

The building was modern, all smooth, sleek lines rising up at least a dozen storey's above street level. Just far enough outside the city's center that they'd lost the tourists and the area had taken on a residential feel – it was a touch too suburban for Elliot's taste, which make him smirk at himself. 

Baker Street had spoiled him.

In more ways than one, he mused, letting his eyes wander down London's lithe frame as the Consulting Criminal led the way toward the building's main entrance. He should have known the attention wouldn't go unnoticed; London glanced over a shoulder, arching an eyebrow pointedly.

"Focus."

"All right, all right," Elliot chuckled, holding up his hands in defeat. London gave him another glare for good measure. The expression vanished as he turned away, replaced smoothly by one of professional boredom as he strode into the lobby, subjecting it to a cold scrutiny.

Elliot didn't kid himself that the roll of his eyes went unremarked, but London chose to ignore him this time, honing in instead of the well-dressed man behind the security desk.

"Bonjour, messieurs."

"I'm here to see Georges Alexandre," London snapped, and Elliot knew full well the English was for his benefit. His partner's aptitude for languages had never ceased to surprise him, but the protective – almost proprietary – reaction did.

Only London, he thought, could take offense at a French person speaking French in France because he'd had the audacity to do so in front of Elliot.

A short-lived flicker of surprise crossed the guard's face but he nodded.

"Bien sur. Is 'e expecting you?"

"I should think so," London replied. Elliot resisted the urge to elbow him – sharply – in the ribs.

"Your name, please?"

"London Holmes."

The guard raised his eyebrows, not, Elliot thought, in recognition, but rather surprise at the unconventional name. He wondered how that would be managed with a French accent – or in French, he realized, because it was unlikely the guard would communicate with one of the residents in English just for them.

There was, in fact, a rapid conversation in French that Elliot strongly suspected went beyond simply announcing who they were and being told to send them up. The guard's puzzled expression and eyes flickering their way backed that up, as did the irritated crease between London's eyes as the call continued.

"Told you that you should have called," Elliot murmured, earning himself another sharp glare.

"He'll let us in," London muttered in reply.

"We'll see."

"Fifty quid."

"It's Euros here, you know. And you don't have a good track record betting against me."

"Euros then," London sighed.

"You're on."

"Good. He's just agreed to send us up."

"Oh bloody– that is not fair."

"Using your own weaknesses against you? You should have paid more attention in French classes."

"I will get you back for this," Elliot growled.

"I look forward to seeing you try," London replied, putting a bright smile on his face as the guard rung off, gesturing them toward their destination. Elliot swallowed a curse, striding after his partner, who wore a smug, triumphant smirk.

The client was waiting for them in the corridor when they stepped out of the lift, hovering just outside his apartment. The grin that split his lips was one of pure delight, and the expression startled Elliot into a half moment's pause.

He wasn't used to seeing such enthusiasm from a client. Nervousness, tenuous hope, desperation, a mix of all three… but not excitement, like a kid at Christmas getting exactly what he'd wanted.

Georges' age didn't help temper the expression at all; Elliot had been expecting someone much older from the wording and tone of the letter, but he was probably younger than London by a year or two, no more than early-thirties at best, and disarmingly friendly when he greeted them in accented but fluent English.

Even fairly smartly dressed in crisp trousers and pressed, shirt, he didn't strike Elliot as a wealthy man missing a valuable family heirloom.

There was something faintly familiar about him, and Elliot wished he'd had some time to do a bit of background research – or that London had bothered to even look Georges up before hauling them halfway across Europe.

It'd be nice to know what we're getting into, even once, he thought with an inward snort.

"Sit, sit, sit," Georges bade them, waving them onto a cozy couch. The nervousness on London's face at the scatter of baby toys across a thick, pale carpet almost distracted Elliot from the unexpectedness of their client. He grinned, determined to be at ease if only because London wasn't – and he doubted it helped the Consulting Criminal much that Georges was of a height with him. He had obvious Asian ancestry – Japanese, Elliot thought – but some European as well.

"Coffee? I may 'ave some tea…"

"Coffee's fine," Elliot said, speaking for both of them as London shook himself back with a general glare. "Black with two sugars for him, milk and no sugar for me."

"Un moment," Georges said, which Elliot understood well enough. Their client vanished into his kitchen, reappearing shortly with freshly brewed coffee, and Elliot grinned again at the suspicious way London sniffed his, as if expecting poison.

Given recent events, he had every right to be suspicious.

"Forgive me," Georges said, claiming an overstuffed arm chair for himself, deftly moving more baby toys . "You probably 'ear this all time, but meeting you – it is amazing! I am a 'uge fan, monsieur 'olmes – your work, well, I would say a work of art, but perhaps a work of science would be a better compliment?"

London actually looked nonplussed for a moment, but Georges didn't seem to notice, still beaming like a kid at Christmas.

"And the stories, too, Elliot. It is a gift to turn life into an exciting story, no?"

Elliot found himself momentarily wordless, too – he hadn't quite thought of it like that before. Although London had certainly accused him of fictionalizing the truth ever since he decided to write about and publish their adventures, since the newspaper's had a terrible habit of false reporting and even worse stories but he'd never really considered it a talent, and certainly not a gift.

"Thanks," he managed.

"The pleasure is all mine," Georges assured him. "I love the cases, always such brilliant deductions, monsieur 'olmes! Fantastique! I 'ave learned a thing or two from them – and I 'ope you don't mind, 'ave used them a bit myself."

"You have?" London asked.

"Of course! I 'ave found your solutions very 'elpful in devising my own – and I should tell you, I 'ave a friend or two in the gens d'armes who should admit the same."

London's confused and pleased expression was a new one on Elliot, and he might have taken the opportunity to enjoy the way his partner was obviously scrambling for mental footing if he hadn't been doing the same.

"You would do well 'ere in Paris, I should think, but of course, 'ome is 'ome and you must get cases from all over the world, yes?"

"Yes, of course," London managed, casting a befuddled look at Elliot, as if he had the answers he didn't.

"That's why we're here," Elliot replied.

"Is it?" Georges asked, face lighting up even more. "May I ask what the case is? 'ave you solved it? No– you can't need my 'elp, can you? I'd be delighted!"

"It's your case," Elliot said. "Isn't it?"

"My case?" Georges asked, dark eyes flickering his way.

"Your case," London confirmed, the superior, clipped tone back in his voice – Elliot doubted he had any idea what was going on, but had at least managed to suppress his shock. "You wrote me earlier in the year."

"I'm sure I didn't," Georges said, the confusion that had leeched from London's expression filling his.

"Elliot," London said, and the doctor fumbled to put his coffee aside and pull out the letter. "A missing family gemstone, if I remember correctly."

"No, I'm sure I don't 'ave one of those." He leaned forward, taking the letter from Elliot, eyes skimming the page before moving back across it more slowly. A puzzled frown shifted into another bright smile.

"Ah yes, this 'appens to me also."

"What does?" London demanded, but the sound of quiet fussing from a bedroom distracted Georges' attention.

"Excusez-moi, s'il-vous-plait," he said, hurrying out of sight down the corridor.

"What the hell is going on?" Elliot muttered. His partner made a sharp motion with his hand, silencing all further discussion. Elliot pursed his lips, swallowing his questions and doing his best not to look completely at sea when Georges returned, balancing a baby girl – about six months old, if Elliot was any judge – on his hip. She stared at them with an infant grogginess, sucking absently on a pacifier.

"My daughter, Élodie," he said, bouncing her gently as he reclaimed his seat. The girl squirmed a bit, reaching for the floor; Georges set her down and Elliot watched, bemused, as she plucked a toy at random to clutch while staring at them.

"Mister Alexandre–"

"Please, call me Georges," Georges interrupted.

"What did you mean, this happens to you, too?" The Consulting Criminal pressed.

At the sound of his voice, the baby made a gleeful sound, pitching her toy aside and crawling across the carpet to grip the legs of his trousers and pull herself to standing. Elliot couldn't quite swallow a laugh at London's startled, almost terrified expression. Élodie grinned around her dummy, smacking one of his knees insistently.

"Go on then," Elliot said, London's frozen, petrified look only making him grin more. "She wants you to pick her up."

"I don't–"

"It's okay," Georges said cheerfully. London's grey eyes flickered over the room quickly, as if seeking escape, but pinned by the tiny human clutching him.

Carefully, as if she might break, the Consulting Criminal picked the girl up, settling her on one knee and patting her vaguely, gently on the back in a way that told Elliot he'd seen it done and suspected it was the right thing to do.

"The letter," Georges said, drawing their attention back to him. "I get them, too. From my readers."

"Your readers?" Elliot echoed.

"They can be quite entertaining, no? Some very good ideas sometimes. I've used one or two of them in my novels, just pieces 'ere and there. Inspiration comes from strange places, does it not?"

"Yeah," Elliot said, feeling as if an answer was required of him. It dawned on him, slowly, that they were dealing with a writer, probably a novelist.

"You didn't write that?" London demanded, glaring at the letter. Georges gave him an understanding smile, which Elliot suspected probably didn't help the situation.

"Monsieur 'olmes, you 'ave fan mail, yes?"

"Of course," London scowled and Elliot felt the Consulting Criminal's mood drastically shift. He knew exactly how much he despised the 'fan mail' they were now frequently getting all thanks to those, as London put it, 'those idiot stories'.

"So do I. I'd love to bring a case to you – if I 'ad one – but why in the world would I write you by post and in French? You are English. Besides, this is not my 'andwriting."

"Do you recognize it?" London demanded.

"No, but as I said, this also 'appens to me."

"You're the mystery writer," Elliot said, the name finally clicking as the pieces started to fit together.

"Of course," Georges replied, casting him a quick, puzzled glance. "You didn't know?"

"Someone didn't think it was necessary to do any research beforehand," Elliot muttered, and London managed to look at least a little abashed – although Elliot doubted it was genuine. He'd probably get the blame later for not doing the background work. It was often his job, after all, to do the tedious bits.

"I suspect someone has played us for fools," London said, voice verging on dark. Elliot cleared his throat at the tone, giving the baby a pointed glance, and the Consulting Criminal glowered but nodded curtly.

"And you should have known," London continued, narrowing his eyes coolly at Elliot. "You've read his work."

Elliot raised an eyebrow in response but forewent pointing out that so had London – mostly because the books (which belonged to Elliot, of course) had been pitched across the living room and the plot lines decried as the predictable offerings of a simplistic mind.

Elliot, on the other hand, had thoroughly enjoyed them.

"'ave you?" Georges asked.

"Brilliant work," Elliot said firmly, refusing to look his partner's way. "Rivals London's own."

"I doubt that," Georges laughed. "But thank you for saying so. Just a moment – I 'ave proof copies of the new one, let me get you each one."

Before London could protest or Elliot could draw a breath to stop him doing so, Georges disappeared down the hallway again, leaving them with the baby, who was happily gurgling on the Consulting Criminal's knee. She took the opportunity to pitch the dummy halfway across the room and sat patiently waiting for half a moment before her tiny features began to crumple.

"Better get it," Elliot said.

"I'm rather encumbered at the moment."

Elliot stood to scoop up the dummy, and a toy, so as to offset any infant distress. She took them happily, grinning around the pacifier at London.

"She likes you."

"Don't get any ideas," London warned darkly. Elliot only shrugged, delighting in the faint horror that rose in the Consulting Criminal's eyes.

Georges reappeared, two books in hand, pressing them into Elliot's, who smiled and thanked him for the autographs and assured him they'd be well liked.

"What do you mean, this has happened to you?" Elliot asked as the Frenchman settled back into his chair.

"Oh, the case, yes. I 'ave readers who like to send me little mysteries, and sometimes claim the stories 'ave 'appened to them – or to someone they know, perhaps a friend or a distant family member, never serious of course. Many of them are amusing and nothing more, but some of them are quite creative and detailed. I'm sure it 'appens to you all the time – false cases to get your attention… although perhaps they do not always get you to Paris."

"No," London said coldly. "They do not. So sorry to have bothered you Mister – Georges, it certainly was not our intention to impose."

"No imposition, I assure you," Georges said, oblivious to London's impatient shifting, the tense set of his muscles that Elliot knew well meant the Consulting Criminal thought he was wasting his time. "It is not every day one gets to meet an internationally renowned sleuth. Do you mind if I keep this?" He tapped the letter resting next to him on the table. "It may be useful."

"Please do," London said, and Elliot had to smother a smirk as his partner tried to figure out how to rise and hold a baby at the same time. Georges scooped her up expertly.

"I will 'ave something to tell my friends in the police," he said, still smiling broadly. Elliot brushed his fingers against London's arm, letting them linger a moment, a warning to behave. "They will be jealous. They are big fans."

"Too bad Scotland Yard aren't," Elliot murmured, feigning innocence when London scowled. He made sure to take the time to thank Georges and say good-bye politely, assuring the other man they'd enjoy Paris while they were here and that he'd promote the new book in his next article, all while aware of London's simmering, jittery impatience behind him. The door had barely closed behind them when London's hand was on his back, propelling him forcefully outside.

"What–"

"We have to go. Now."

"It wasn't that bad–" Elliot tried to protest.

"No. It's worse. Don't you see? We were bloody lured out of England, Elliot!"

"Lured?" Elliot said. "You mean it was a fake case–"

"Your talent for pointing out the obvious is truly amazing!" London snapped.

"Hey! This is not my fault. You're the one who told me just hours ago that several of the mails you had gotten in that pile on your desk was made up, this isn't the first time you've had a fake case!" Elliot replied.

"But it's the first time it's gotten us out of England!"

"To what damn end?" Elliot demanded as they reached the ground floor and London nearly dragged him from the building, the security guard looking startled as they hurried by. "It was sent six months ago! It's not an effective set up if it takes us half a year to get around to leaving!"

"Someone could be waiting on an opportunity–"

"What opportunity?" Elliot interrupted, his own patience unwinding. "Christ, listen to yourself! Sending a letter that might get us to leave, even if you were interested enough to do so – it's not like you couldn't have sorted this out from home! It's not exactly a good trap if we find out the bait is faked before we even left. Is it?"

"I fell for it. Hook, line and sinker." The Consulting Criminal pressed. "We're here, and we're meant to be there."

He moved to the nearest phone box and dialed a familiar number, the flicker of his gaze to the middle distance silencing Elliot's protests.

"Shut up." he said abruptly, ignoring Elliot's faint warning huff for him to be an adult in dealing with who he knew would be on the other end of incoming string of abuse.

"Something's going to happen. I need to find out what it is. Now."

Elliot walked a few steps away. Letting out a deep breath and counted to ten as the Consulting Criminal was getting highly agitated and animated behind him as he spoke faster with each passing moment and becoming almost incoherent with his older brother.

He was not looking forward to attempting to calm the, in every sense of the word, mad genius, once he got off the phone.

"He's lying."

"He's not lying."

"Of course he's lying!"

"Why would he lie?"

"Because he's Alexander!"

Elliot sighed again, folding his arms and giving London his best captain's glower, inwardly pleased when the Consulting Criminal shifted, eyes darting away briefly.

"He wouldn't lie about this," Elliot said. He was sure about that – he wouldn't put it past Alexander to lie about anything else, but England was his one true love. Elliot knew if there was any real hint of danger, the older Holmes sibling brother would do everything he could to protect it. If London was a resource, Alexander would use him, even if it meant putting his baby brother in harm's way.

He had before, after all.

Elliot would fight Alexander tooth and nail on that, if it came to it – but here and now, there was nothing to fight. Nothing beyond the usual background criminal and terrorist chatter, nothing too loud or too quiet. Nothing that had caught Alexander's very keen and honed senses.

And he would be on alert for it, Elliot knew, with both of them out of the country.

The way London shifted, annoyed, told Elliot he knew it too. Knowing it and admitting it were two different things – admitting it meant owning up to the fact that a prank case had got them all the way to Paris for no good reason. Elliot had no illusions that London would have preferred some imminent attack or complicated conspiracy if only because it would mean he was right – and, of course, because it would let him go charging back to London instead of dithering on a Paris sidewalk, arguing about Alexander's intentions.

"It could be Baker Street," London insisted, lips pursed into a thin, displeased line.

"Everything's fine."

"Nothing is ever fine!" his partner snapped. "There's always something!"

"It is as fine as it could be. You know Alexander is watching the apartment. He's always watching it!" He sighed again.

"You said Cruz was going to watch it while we were away,"

London grouched, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, managing somehow to hunch his shoulders and still managing to tower over Elliot at the same time.

Elliot could feel it in himself, see it reflected in the tension that still settled into London's muscles despite his conversation with his brother. Would the Consulting Criminal before Wales have jumped to the conclusion they'd been led here deliberately? Probably, Elliot thought – but he doubted his partner would be eyeing every passer-by so suspiciously, seeing connections that weren't really there.

For his part, he thought he saw a very bright and glaring one with Alexander's name written all over it. London's brother had denied it when Elliot suggested it, pointing out that he'd hardly go to all that trouble to arrange them a holiday, but Elliot wasn't so sure he bought it.

That kind of game was right up Alexander's street, and Elliot would have bet their house and all their savings that London would never knowingly accept such a gift from his brother. They needed a break, but the Consulting Criminal wouldn't have copped to that even if Elliot had suggested it, say nothing of Alexander.

"We're here now," Elliot said.

"Oh very well deduced. Your talent for stating the obvious is still stronger than ever."

"You don't have a case," Elliot continued, ignoring London's blatant eye roll at another obvious statement. "And we're not needed back in England."

"I am always needed in England," London sniffed. "I've got an international reputation to maintain. I can't go gallivanting around the world at a moment's notice!"

"You did just say it was an international reputation," Elliot pointed out, not even trying to smother the grin at London's irritated expression.

"For the work!"

"Well, even the world's only Consulting Criminal is allowed holidays. You haven't got any cases on. Only hours ago, you wrote off everything in your inbox as a waste of time and tore up the apartment trying to find something to do. Alexander's got nothing for you, Cruz has got nothing for you, and, as it turns out, neither does a famous French mystery author."

"All the more reason to go back!" London insisted. "There's nothing for us here!"

"There's Paris," Elliot said.

"Do they give some kind of NHS award for stating the glaringly obvious?" London demanded.

"We're in Paris, and without a case. And I don't know about you, but after being stranded in Wales, I think we've both earned a bit of a break."

"We were hardly stranded. The very word implies we were physically unable to leave–"

"We're on holiday, Holmes. As of right now. Whether you like it or not."

"Whether I like it or not? An enforced holiday? How is that even possible?"

"I will make you enjoy it," Elliot said, folding his arms again.

"What are you going to do? Drag me into enjoyment kicking and screaming?"

"If I have to," Elliot said with a grin. "Especially the screaming bit." London stared at him for a brief moment, then rolled his eyes.

"Relax," Elliot said. "We can take a few days without England falling apart, and if Greg needs you – if anyone really needs you, they know how to get in touch with you. At worst, you know Alexander could send a plane."

London shifted, annoyed, almost shrugging but refusing to meet Elliot's eyes for a moment.

"What do you suggest we do?" he snapped.

"Well you've been here before, but I never have," Elliot replied.

"You want to do tourist things?" The Consulting Criminal groaned.

"Yep. And there's a certain debt I want to collect on."

"It won't be any fun," London grouched.

"Really?" Elliot asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Not that," London sighed. "The rest. There will be… people."

"And me," Elliot reminded him.

"Yes and obviously you."

"You won't have to talk to them," Elliot said with a light shrug and a smile. "And I'll make sure you have fun." He could see London warring with himself, well past the point of defeat but not wanting to admit it.

"You will, will you?"

"Oh yeah," Elliot replied.

"And how, pray tell?"

"I have my ways," Elliot smiled. "Trust me."

London scowled again, and Elliot knew he'd won.

"All right," the Consulting Criminal muttered. "But just this once."