"Nope."

London twisted, flipping the helmet's visor up, grey eyes narrowed at Elliot.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Nope," Elliot repeated.

"To what?"

Elliot nodded at the hotel across the street, refusing to relinquish his hold around London's waist.

"It's our hotel, Elliot."

"Yes I can see that. But we're not stopping here."

"You said you wanted to collect on your debt," London pointed out.

"I do," Elliot said with a grin. "And I will. But it's a gorgeous day and it's been a long time since lunch. I'd like to see some of Paris and have something to eat – preferably at the same time. I'm willing to bet a Consulting Criminal with an international reputation knows a few places that fit that bill."

He didn't mention that London had been here during his nine and a half months of "death". Elliot doubted his partner had done much in the way of tourist activities then. Even if he was complaining about it now (or at least glowering at Elliot in a very complaining way), Elliot wanted to overlay some of those memories with more positive ones.

"Fine," London sighed, snapping the visor shut. "Hold on."

Elliot did, grinning behind his own visor as the city zipped past, the downward slope of the streets taking them toward the river. The Eiffel Tower came into view, and Elliot made a mental note to buy them tickets when he had a moment on the phone without London paying attention – the Consulting Criminal might gripe and mutter, but Elliot wanted to see it first hand, and he'd bet London had never actually been.

London parked the bike near the river and locked their helmets in the small box that seemed designed for that purpose; Elliot couldn't resist a grin at the way London's curls were mashed so that only the ends sprang free. London huffed at the gaze and ruffled his hair until it approached something like its normal self, glaring at his reflection in the bikes mirror until he was satisfied.

"Take your time," Elliot said.

"I'm quite ready to get this over with," London snapped, which only made Elliot grin more, as London lead him down towards the river bank where a series of small cafés and restaurants were strung out, comfortable chairs and umbrellas enticing the tourists wandering by to stop.

The sun was beginning to slip toward the horizon, lengthening the shadows, but still bright in the sky. It was a bit chillier down by the water, but Elliot didn't mind, especially when the restaurant he settled on (because asking London to pick was a fool's errand) provided them each with a blanket. Elliot found them a slightly more private spot, tucked towards the back of the open air restaurant, low-slung seats partially obscured by large potted plants. He could see the river sliding by in the near distance, but they were less noticeable, and it was nice, he thought, to have a bit of anonymity.

He ordered them some food and a bottle of champagne, refusing to be put off by a sulk that had no serious bite to it. It would have been better if there had been a case; London didn't do well with that kind of disappointment, and it probably irked him not to be at home where he could tear up the apartment or throw himself on the couch like a proper drama queen.

The champagne came on ice and after the waiter had vanished, leaving them in relative peace.

The food also came and went, and London ate without complaining, which Elliot considered a minor miracle.

"Why him?" London demanded suddenly. "Why Georges?"

"Holmes," Elliot sighed.

"It must mean something!"

"Yes. It means Alexander's been in our apartment – repeatedly – and because you're both creepily observant, he's seen that I've got some of his books."

"He said he didn't do it," London muttered.

"Bollocks. He obviously knows I like Alexandre's writing and that you hate it, and he wanted you to take a holiday. Us to take a holiday. He couldn't just offer – you'd have said no, and anyway, that's not like him."

"My brother doesn't do nice," London said.

He tries. Sometimes, Elliot thought, but didn't bother arguing the point.

"Besides–"

"Shut up," Elliot said.

"What?" London snapped, derailed suddenly from whatever complaint he'd had, grey eyes narrowing.

"I said, shut up. I don't want to talk about your brother. Neither do you, frankly."

London stared at him a moment, then slouched down further in his chair.

"What do you want to talk about?" he muttered. "Something trivial, no doubt."

"Nope," Elliot said, ignoring the eyebrow raised pointedly. "I don't want to talk about anything."

"So we'll just sit here, shall we? For an unspecified amount of time?"

"I am going to teach you the meaning of holidays, starting now."

Elliot knew what had woken him the moment he blinked his eyes open in the unfamiliar darkness. That small combination of sensations that spelled nightmare – tense muscles, rapid breathing, unconscious pulling away. His name spoken in a low, soft tone. It could have been a murmur but it was a plea, the word echoed by the nervous twitches of London's body.

Elliot had asked, more than once, if London wanted to talk about it, the nightmares he was often plagued with, wanting to help just like London always did by playing his violin whenever Elliot fell victim to his memories of Afghanistan. 

Averted eyes and a short, sharp shake of the head were always answer enough to that.

He had a pretty good idea, though.

Even without his name slipping out into the night, Elliot would have pieced it together.

A Semtex vest in a pool at midnight.

A sniper's bullet marked for him.

A missing body in a forlorn Welsh night.

It sparked a dark rage, to be played like that – not for himself, but for London. That someone with so little could have it toyed with, threatened to be taken away again and again until it had actually happened.

But anger didn't help, not here, not in these moments. He was no stranger to nightmares, although his own were easier. Not as bad these days (if he only counted the ones about the war, which was simpler). London's were complicated. Too many things, tied up together, winding around him, pulling him down.

His own genius and mind betraying him the only time he wasn't totally in control.

It had taken some time to learn, but he was better at keeping his partner asleep now. Waking him up was less productive – London would be cranky, petulant, stubborn.

His normal self, but with embarrassment and doubt mixed in.

Elliot disliked that combination as much as the Consulting Criminal did.

"'S'all right," he murmured when he heard his name again. London turned toward the sound, and Elliot could just make out eyes moving beneath closed lids as he moved to the side of the bed London was currently twitching and gently kneeled down on the floor so he wouldn't startle London further. "I'm right here." Fingers twitched against the blanket, searching; Elliot covered them carefully, keeping his touch light, sliding his thumb over the ridges of knuckles.

The hand closed around his, hard; Elliot winced but kept his voice level.

"I'm right here. You're okay. Keep breathing" he repeated, raising their joined hands to bring London's to Elliot's face. Elliot had learned that it helped if the Consulting Criminal knew where he was physically, and Elliot wasn't surprised when the hand froze on the side of his face. He rubbed his other hand lightly over London's back, willing the Consulting Criminal to breathe evenly and relax.

"You've got me," Elliot murmured. "It's all right, you've got me."

London tensed briefly then sighed harshly, all of the tautness evaporating from his muscles. In his sleep, he settled himself more securely against his side, still refusing to let go of his hand. It was always a bit too warm, but Elliot had never really been able to mind. It helped London, and it meant something to him, too.

He'd never admit it out loud, because it sounded ridiculously sentimental even inside his own mind.

"I'm here," he said again, even if it wasn't necessary anymore. 

London seemed to finally hear him, because there was one final breath let out and London loosened his hold on Elliot's hand, allowing Elliot to at last remove it from the side of his face and he murmured something meaningless, smoothing his hands over London's skin again, and the Consulting Criminal stilled.

He closed his eyes, waiting a few minutes to make sure his partner would stay peacefully asleep, then let himself relax before he let the room and the Consulting Criminal realized what had happened.

"You'd better be booking us tickets for the Eiffel Tower," Elliot said, propping himself on his forearms. London raised his eyebrows at him, pausing his dialing of the phone.

"Why would I be doing that?" he drawled.

"Because that's what we're doing today."

"When did you become the arbiter of our plans?" London asked.

"When I decided we were actually taking this holiday. I've never been and I want to go."

"It's not that interesting," London said.

"Bollocks, you don't know that, because you've never been either."

"Of course I have," London sniffed, but refused to meet Elliot's eyes.

"You? Not a chance."

"If there hasn't been a chance until now, why do you think there would be one today?" London asked, grey eyes glinting.

"Because you would do anything for me."

"Is that so?"

"It is. I've accumulated a lot of evidence, you know."

"Well," London sighed, and Elliot grinned at the mock defeat in his partner's voice, "far be it for me to deny you the opportunity to collect more. Let's have Alexander provide us with some tickets, shall we?"

Elliot wondered what Alexander thought of the charges they were accruing, but supposed it was a small price to pay if it was getting him what he wanted. Against all odds, London was actually beginning to relax and have an almost-proper holiday.

"What were you doing?" Elliot asked. "Before I woke up."

"Data," London murmured.

"So, while I was sleeping, you were thinking?"

"I see no reason to deny it. I was checking into Alexandre's background." London pointed to stacks of newspapers and books written by Alexandre.

"I'm not exactly an expert, but I think he was a decent looking bloke. Tall, too."

"And encumbered by an infant. Not to mention a wife. Besides, not my type."

"And what did you find out about our favorite French author while I was asleep?"

"He's your favorite French author – so maybe I'm the one who should be worried. And he's tall, as you said, and dark haired. That reminds me of someone."

"He's not a Consulting Criminal though."

"Is that a requirement?"

"He's got to be the only Consulting Criminal in the world."

"Lucky for me then. Did you know his parents were in their forties when he was born?"

Elliot took a second to switch mental tracks.

"Shocking," he replied. "He's clearly the most interesting man in the world."

"Third," London corrected.

"What?" Elliot asked. "Who's the second?"

"You are."

"Me? Who's the first?"

"I am. Obviously," London pointed out.

"You're a giant git," Elliot said, rolling his eyes.

"You say that, but yet you're still here."

"Nowhere I'd rather be."

"England?"

"Fine," Elliot conceded. "No one I'd rather be with."

"With whom I'd rather be."

Elliot groaned, slouching down in the pillows.

"It's too early for proper grammar. What else did you find out?"

"The usual," London sighed. "Born and raised here, educated here, travels frequently but not excessively – that would largely be book promotions I suppose – married two years ago, wife is a publicist, he makes a decent living off his writing, six month old daughter, whom we met, both parents deceased now, father four years ago, mother almost two, no bad habits that would cause him any financial trouble, fairly active social life, even with the baby."

"It's almost as if he were a normal person," Elliot said in mock surprise. "One whose name was in the right place at the right time for Alexander to take advantage of it."

"You're still stuck on that ridiculous theory," London said with a scowl.

"More so now," Elliot said.

The city spread out around, altogether different in tone and character from London, but the view wasn't an unpleasant one. The Consulting Criminal could admit (privately) the air seemed somewhat clearer here, although that was probably an illusion created by the predominance of white buildings rather than the dusty reds and browns of brick and sandstone he was used to.

But it wasn't Paris he was particularly interested in looking at. From here, all they could really see was the veneer, the bustling heart of the tourist center hiding the real city, the one in which people lived and worked and lied and schemed and stole.

Vaguely, he wondered what it would be like to understand it as well as he did London, to pick up on all its subtle hints and secrets. He'd learned his way around well enough when he'd been here during his exile – always taking care to know everything he needed to keep himself alive, hidden, and as safe as he could be, but discarding it as unnecessary once he'd returned home.

England was his, and he'd slipped back into it like putting on an old, comfortable coat. Paris, like the other cities he'd slunk into, had its own allure, but never enough to keep him. They'd been stopping points, nothing more than necessary battles fought with only one goal in mind.

Home.

Elliot.

Even the views of London weren't particularly interesting in and of themselves. The Consulting Criminal used them for information, observing a slowly shifting landscape, gleaning patterns from the way it changed and molded itself to new circumstances.

It was Elliot he watched – or wanted to watch. He couldn't always, of course – there were practicalities, other people – but there were also moments like this, when London knew enough about social interaction to realize that staring at his partner would draw attention to them.

So he positioned himself behind Elliot, using contact to replace observation, standing at the right angle to see the profile curve of Elliot's face out of the corner of his eye, and it didn't look odd when he glanced down, nodding at or replying to something Elliot was saying. The words scarcely mattered, although London listened anyway, because unlike everyone else, Elliot did matter.

The tone of Elliot's voice, the lightness of his stance, his face – London drank it all in, almost but not quite able to ignore the stab of fear they caused.

All of it seemed almost brittle, as if it could snap and shatter at any second. There was a wavering disconnect between himself and the ordinariness of the day. The tower was firm beneath him, tourists and languages flowed around him, traffic moved below in predictable, if somewhat backwards, patterns.

It was all there, solid, palpable, real.

"You were on your phone earlier – given the length of time, the amount of selections you had to make, and the fact that you had to ask me for Alexander's account number – again – indicates you had to book something." London heaved a sigh, in part for show, Elliot knew, but it wasn't entirely feigned. "A tour, I assume. There are a number possibilities – each as tedious as the last, I'll have you know – and I suppose your choice of venue is meant to be the surprise."

Elliot grinned, folding his arms, earning a dark scowl from his partner.

"Well, you're right about the schedule," he said. "Wrong about everything else."

"I'm never wrong," London said coolly.

"Just like you never guess?"

"Precisely."

"If you say so," Elliot replied. "But really, I think you'll like this one."

"I reckoned noon was enough time for us to have a bit of a lie in, then a nice, leisurely breakfast, and we'll be back in London before teatime," Elliot said.

"Train tickets," London deduced, and Elliot wondered if he was imagining the faint note of surprise in his partner's voice. "I thought you were enjoying yourself."

"I am. But we can't let England's criminal underworld get too comfortable. And we don't want to be out of practice, do we?"

"Assuming there are any interesting cases," London huffed.

"We could always stay…"

"No, I'm certain we'll find something," his partner replied quickly. Elliot knew London's limited patience was reaching its breaking point, and he was starting to feel the itch to go back, too. He'd never lasted long on leave even when he'd been in the army, mind drifting back to the action after a few days, distracting him, turning a supposedly relaxing trip into chafing confinement.

Elliot would bet his last pound that London knew that.

"What about the motorbike?" London asked.

"Someone from the hotel's going to take it back to the airport," he said.

"Courtesy of Alexander, I hope?"

"Like everything else," Elliot replied. "Almost everything else," he amended when an alarmed expression flickered over his partner's features.

"A train schedule gives us approximately sixteen more hours. Tell me, what do you intend for us to do with all that time?"

"Y'know, I hadn't thought about that. Between the two of us, I think we could come up with a couple of good ideas."

"A couple?" London said, arching an eyebrow. "I've already got ten."

London would have gladly whiled away the whole morning, but Elliot had insisted on going out.

Again.

It should have annoyed him that it was so difficult to resist Elliot's requests, but London couldn't muster the response. Being hauled out of bed was worth it to stroll down the street with Elliot, aware of the smug pride that emanated from his partner when glances were directed London's way. 

Really, these idiots had no idea what they were missing.

It was a relief to see Elliot so lighthearted. Carefree. He had smiled more over the past two days than any other two-day period since they had returned to London from the nightmare in Wales.

Perhaps they could take more short trips in the future.

The idea wasn't as unappealing as it once might have been.

England would always be there, after all. Waiting. In need of his services.

The city – his city – rushed back toward them as France fell away at nearly two hundred miles per hour. The sense of home he felt as they were engulfed first by the suburbs, then by London itself, was somewhat clouded by the worry that Elliot wouldn't be as enthusiastic. That he would have preferred to remain on their impromptu holiday.

A quick glance dispelled any apprehension; Elliot was grinning as the conductor announced their arrival into King's Cross, and they were jostled off the train in the press of other travelers, winding their way back up into bright, English air.

The cab got them home as quickly as the tube would have, but London needed to see the buildings and the streets slide by, gauge any change in their character, pick up any hints of what was going on below.

Two days could make difference.

Baker Street was right as they left it, and the fact that a careful eye had been kept on it was announced blatantly by the vase of flowers left on the coffee table. The splash of vibrant color seemed out of place – a feminine touch, albeit not a stranger's one – Anthea's doing. Elliot was pleased.

One of the flowers had been plucked from the bouquet and placed in a smaller vase on the mantle, with a simple note that read 'Welcome Home.' The "W" and the "H" were done with a calligraphic flourish in neat handwriting. It remained a mystery, even to London, how the Inspector managed to retain this skill as a police officer. By rights, the handwriting should have been nearly indecipherable.

Leaving Elliot to unpack was a dubious prospect – for a military man, his lack of order was alarming, and socks were always replaced incorrectly, and often intermingled. London followed behind Elliot at each step, correcting the inaccuracies, peering over his shoulder to give him proper instructions.

"If you don't bloody stop, I'm going to handcuff you to something," Elliot growled.

"Not much incentive for me to stop," London pointed out. "Besides, you're doing it wrong."

"You finish then," Elliot sighed. "I'll go round to the shops. Won't be long. Try not to rearrange everything while I'm out."

"You're the one who puts things in the wrong place," The Consulting Criminal pointed out, but Elliot only grinned before he clattered down the stairs.

Without needing to constantly correct someone else's mistakes, it was a matter of a few minutes before he was done, left only with two copies of Georges Alexandre's new book, and wondering where he might hide them so as never be subjected to them. In the end, London relented, shoving his copy haphazardly on an upper shelf but leaving Elliot's on the coffee table.

Elliot did have a very good memory. For some things.

There were no cases of any interest or worth, but while he was gone, an Australian connection had sent an intriguing proposal for an experiment. It had potential, although he'd have to make a number of small adjustments to make it passably interesting.

It would do until Cruz lost his patience for London's repeated phone calls and actually gave him something useful to do.

He shrugged the dark brown dressing gown over his shoulders, relishing the lightness of the silk. 

He'd take care not to damage it.

London took himself downstairs, entrenching himself in the ground floor apartment, where he had more room for his experiments, and could create caustic fumes without (too much) complaint. Elliot had repeatedly mentioned the need to get a proper fume hood, although London hardly saw the point.

He could always go to Bart's if he needed that.

Much more pleasant not to be restricted by tedious safety regulations in his own home.

The experimental set up needed more tweaking than normal, but he could begin to see the promise of it. The Consulting Criminal made notes as he went, quick, almost indecipherable code, with added comments about the viability of the process. It could be worth putting with Elliot's latest hobby of writing, and he certainly wanted more accuracy than Elliot managed.

A pause so he could think made him aware of the settled silence in the house – the sounds of the street outside filtered in through the closed windows, but there was nothing else beyond that pattern of his own breathing and the faint tick of the clock on the mantle. London's eyes darted to it, trying to work out how long it had been since he'd come down here, how long since Elliot had left.

He scoured his memory, combing it for the sound of the front door opening and closing, of Elliot's voice, of his tread on the stairs and on the floorboards above.

He could recall all of them easily – or perhaps fabricate them at will – but they hadn't happened.

Not today. Not since Elliot had gone out.

He hurried upstairs. A faint rattling made him look up, but it was the wind against one of the open windows, stirring the drapes and some of the scattered papers on the desk. London held himself still, straining his hearing in a desperate attempt to catch the sound of a key in the lock.

The flower on the mantle caught his eye as the petals moved slightly in the remnant breeze. The card next to it seemed too cheery for the sudden uncertainty – they'd come home, but Elliot had gone out again and hadn't come back.

It could be mundane.

It could be nothing.

A delay.

A detour.

It could be Wales again.

It could be even worse.

'Welcome Home.'

Realization cut through him like a knife; without even wanting it, he was on his feet, plucking the card from the mantle, flipping it over between his thumb and forefinger to read the rest of the message on the back.

'Tu m'as Manqu?'

Did you miss me?

The world would burn.

He would turn the entire city upside down, call in every favor he'd ever been owed. Leave no stone unturned, no abandoned building untouched.

There would be nowhere to hide. Not now. Not this time.

It didn't matter where they went, how far or fast they ran.

He would hunt them down.

And if anything had happened to Elliot, they would pay.

More than they'd ever thought possible.

There was no time to think, no time to decide between calling Cruz or Alexander first because the choice was obvious – his brother had more resources but Cruz had been there, in Wales. He understood. He knew. Scotland Yard would move on his command, and move faster than the weight of the British government. The necessary lag time his brother would face would be countered by Cruz's instantaneous response.

The sound of the front door opening was like a gun shot, like adrenaline straight to the heart, half of London's mind working out how quickly he could get to his gun and if it was properly loaded in the split second before he registered – impossibly – Elliot's tread on the floorboards below, the familiar sounds of a greeting being called out.

London was down the stairs before Elliot had even managed to take a single step up, the shock of being forced against the wall making him drop the shopping bags he'd had in each hand.

"Stop!" Elliot said, the words making London growl. "For Christ's sake! Holmes! Stop now."

He did, suddenly, the command bypassing his brain, rooting itself into his nerves and muscles. They stayed locked, a frozen tableau, both of them breathing hard, Elliot's eyes fastened on his, sharp and bright.

"Take a deep breath," Elliot said. "Slowly."

"She was here," London hissed. Elliot's eyes widened, incomprehension more than shock, before narrowing as he shook his head.

"Who?"

"Her," London spat, shoving the card into Elliot's hand, finally able to force himself back, to give Elliot a bit of room to move. His mind screamed in response, warning against letting Elliot go, against even the smallest amount of space between them.

With a deep, harsh breath through gritted teeth, London wrestled himself back under control.

The shock on Elliot's face almost made him lose that tenuous restraint.

"How–"

"You were gone too long."

"I had to go to a few more places than usual. It took longer than I thought."

"We need to call Greg," he said instead. "And Alexander. Did you check for bugs?"

He hadn't had time, of course – but it should have been the first thing he'd done when he got home. He'd failed to ensure their safety. Elliot's safety. He'd been lulled by the trip, and his sock index had seemed so important.

Stupid! he snarled at himself, feeling his lip curl.

"No," he managed.

Elliot's simple act of picking up the shopping bags he'd dropped made London repress a snarl, fingers curling into fists; it was too bland an action right now, too inane. Not important. He needed to get Elliot upstairs, where it was safe – but it wasn't safe. She'd been in there, insinuating herself into their space.

She'd done it before. He'd wanted it then, and not wanted it at the same time. It had been a dangerous dance, the veiled menace making his mind buzz the way cocaine had so many times before, the thrill of it – the risk, the allure – singing in his veins.

And now every shadow held a threat, every movement put him on edge.

She'd come back in, let him know there was nothing he could do.

Just like before. 

Nine months, fifth-teen days, two hours, thirty two minutes and six seconds.

He couldn't protect Elliot. Not by leaving. Not by staying. Elliot was at risk because of him and there was no way around it or out of it, there was no controlling Elliot's every movement and even if there were, he couldn't stop the rest of it, the way Elliot was targeted, and if he took himself away again it wouldn't matter because she'd always know – anyone would know – that all it would take to bring him back would be a threat to Elliot.

Elliot was the most precious thing in the world, and London had made Elliot's life a commodity, something to be tossed aside at will, without warning or care, and everyone who wanted to get to the Consulting Criminal could go through Elliot, could strap a bomb to him or drug him and abandon him or simply come into their home and steal him away, leaving nothing more than a note in his place.

It mattered that Elliot was everything, contained in one compact, perfect package, because everything could be taken away so easily, ripped from him, ripped apart.

"Holmes!"

It was Elliot's voice, distorted, fuzzy, distant, but two hot, tight points of contact on London's arms resolved themselves into Elliot's hands, fingers digging – hard – into the Consulting Criminal's skin.

"Take a deep breath." The command was ridiculous, he had no time for that, he needed to get Elliot upstairs, close them in, turn the apartment upside down, call Cruz, call Alexander, call in every favor–

"Deep breath!" Elliot snapped, captain's tone rooting itself in London's body again. "Hold it! Now exhale, slowly. Slowly, Holmes. Again. Look at me. Look at me."

It made him look, really look, drinking in all the details he knew by heart, tracing lines of muscle and bone, across hardened features, taut lips, tightened jaw.

"Good," Elliot said, and something in the tone made London long for more approval, resist the desire to spiral downward again. "You're okay. I'm okay. I'm right here. Nothing happened."

"It could have–"

"It didn't. Don't. Don't. Good." His voice softened on the last word, fingers easing up somewhat. "I need you to sit."

His body obeyed against his will, the pressure of Elliot's hand on the back of his head pushing it down, between his knees, where the disjointed feeling began to recede more quickly.

"I'm going to get you some water."

"Cruz–"

"He's on his way."

They were upstairs – the realization registered for the first time. He was in his chair, not sat on a step. London scoured his memory, but there was nothing between being downstairs, in the hall, and being up here. No recollection of Elliot on the phone, only that black, suffocating certainty that he'd lost control. 

That he'd never had it in the first place.

"Here. Slowly." Elliot helped him with the glass; London was dimly aware his hands were shaking. The water felt strange on his tongue, as if he'd never tasted it before.

Panic attack. Some small part of him was grateful that Elliot hadn't said the words.

The rap on the apartment door was echoed by the rattle of glass as it hit the rug, and London was up before he'd registered the movement, putting himself between Elliot and the door. 

Belated recognition set in, barely pushing past the adrenaline haze.

"We have a problem," his brother said without preamble, striding in. No needling, no verbal dance. Two other men with him, silent suits in the background, taking up positions on either side of the door.

London's body saw the threat, his mind shouted the rational explanation at him.

Protection, not entrapment.

Every nerve screamed to get Elliot out, to get him away, let no one else near him.

Alexander paused, gaze diverted to something on the coffee table. The novel Georges had given Elliot, the one London had put there earlier.

"What is this?" Alexander demanded, subjecting to the book's cover to a piercing glare. The reaction made no sense. Incongruous. It was just a book.

"A book," Elliot said, as though stating the obvious. Which he was. "Alexandre gave it to me. It's his latest."

Alexander's gaze slid to Elliot; London curled his hands into fists, trying to quash the urge to strike, to keep Elliot safe, because there was no threat here despite every sense insisting there was, that something was wrong, that Elliot was in danger.  

"This," Alexander said, picking up the book, handing it, back cover up, to Elliot. "Do you recognize these symbols?"

Elliot took it, reaching past London to do so, the warmth from his arm searing against London's skin. He wanted to reach out, to envelop Elliot somehow, to keep him for himself, away from anyone else.

He breathed in slowly, unable to move, to give Elliot any space, he shifted closer to him, letting London see the cover as well. A series of four abstract symbols, painted in no apparent pattern on a non-descriptive wall.

"They look familiar…" Elliot murmured.

"They should," Alexander replied. "You found them in the tunnels in March." His eyes shifted to London, cool, inquiring. "You didn't make the connection?"

"I didn't look," London snapped.

But he should have.

Someone had used Georges to draw them to France. The man's life was mostly unremarkable, but there had to be something there. Some reason he'd been chosen. Something he knew, or ought to know.

"They are," Elliot agreed. "Well, he said he reads the newspaper I've been writing for, so maybe he got the inspiration there."

"That book is due to be published next month," Alexander replied.

"And?" Elliot said.

"The timing doesn't work," London interjected. "This would already have been set, long before then."

"What does that mean?" Elliot asked. "He had something to do with that case? How? He said he wished had a case for us, but that he didn't. Plus he lives in France! What does he care about a murdered English businessman?"

"Perhaps we should find out," London said, eyes locked with his brother's, aware that Elliot's gaze was alternating between them, confused, trying to keep up.

"That's going to prove difficult," Alexander said, the edge in his voice cold, cautionary.

"He's missing."