It was less than ten minutes before the buzzer sounded, two sharp, insistent rings. Elliot jerked at the sound, muscles tensing, hands balling into fists, relaxing only with deliberate effort when he met London's gaze. London waited until Elliot nodded, a curt, military movement, expression hard.

He came no closer to deducing their contact's identity in the short time it took them to descend the stairs than he had while waiting for them to arrive. Any number of people flitted into and out of his life on a daily basis, and someone he knew might only be in passing or by sight.

Too many variables, not enough data.

Elliot reached for the door first; London stopped him, covering his hand with his own. London thought Elliot might refuse, would insist on doing this himself, but the moment passed with a slow exhalation. Elliot gave him another nod, this one as curt as the last but less certain; the doctor's eyes darted away, the tendons in his neck tensed as he set his jaw.

It probably wouldn't matter much, but London wanted to absolve Elliot of as much responsibility in this as he could.

Wrestling his own trepidation under control, London swung the lock and pulled the door open.

Anthony Dimmock grinned back at them, the familiar smile jarring and unwanted.

The shock hit him first, like a sledgehammer, dragging confusion in its wake as rapid observations hounded him, the timing, their expectations, the way he was dressed, all registering automatically, nearly overwhelmed by horror when the pieces slotted into place because Elliot would get right to rage and would say something, was about to say something, blue eyes bright, expression verging on dangerous–

"You're late for a dinner, by more than twenty minutes, you lost yourself in paperwork you've been neglecting for the past three weeks." London said bluntly, cutting Elliot off, aware that he was leaving his partner reeling, furious and perplexed. He felt Elliot's eyes on him and ignored it, arching an eyebrow at Dimmock, covering his own imbalance with a cool exterior. "Somewhere nice but obviously close by– you wouldn't have stopped by otherwise."

"Not far," Dimmock agreed but decided against asking how the Consulting Criminal knew about the paperwork. "But I thought I would stop in anyway. See how you were doing. Elliot, you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Um–" Elliot struggled but, to his credit, didn't glance up at London for assistance. "Yeah, um, fine. Just wasn't expecting you is all."

"Clearly," Dimmock said, folding his arms, giving them an infuriating half smile. "Who were you expecting?"

"No one," Elliot said, at the same time as London replied: "A contact."

Dimmock raised both eyebrows, subjecting them to his best penetrative glare.

"I don't want to know," Dimmock said. He cast Elliot another look for good measure; the doctor had at least been able to pull himself together somewhat, but it was clear enough to London that the façade was tenuous at best.

"There's no one here who's not supposed to be, is there?"

"No," London replied, shaking his head when he fixed his eyes on him. He nodded slowly, after a long moment's consideration, apparently satisfied that he wasn't leaving them in immediate danger.

"For my sake, please try to stay upright and breathing. Both of you. I really don't want to be back on duty tonight. Cruz comes back tomorrow morning so save your antics for him. Thank you."

"I have no intentions of ruining your evening," London said crisply, reaching into his trouser pocket and fishing out a twenty pound note.

"What's this?" Dimmock asked as the Consulting Criminal extended the money to him.

"For champagne. On us."

"You know it's a crime to bribe a police officer?"

"It's only a bribe if we're doing it to cover something up. Which we are not, so please, enjoy. With our sincere compliments."

"Don't think this gets you off the hook if you do something stupid," Dimmock warned, but pocketed the money without any further protest.

"You never know," Elliot said, and London ignored the relief that the doctor had found some equilibrium again. "It might someday."

"Keep on hoping," Dimmock replied with a grin. "I'd say stay out of trouble but I doubt it would mean much. Have a good night."

"Yeah, you too," Elliot said, and London contributed some inane farewell, watching him walk up the street, gait and posture unconcerned. When he was out of ear shot, he closed the door quickly and turned, grabbing Elliot's arms, bring himself down closer to eye level with the doctor.

"It's not him, Elliot! It's not him."

Whatever control Elliot had been exercising broke again, all of the confusion and fear roiling back to the surface.

"Holm–"

"Listen to me. It's not him! The person Mary is sending, it isn't Dimmock."

"But he came–"

"And he left again. Yes, I know."

"So– what?" Elliot demanded, the confusion suddenly finding an outlet with rage, eyes sparking in the dim lighting of the landing. "It was just coincidence that he showed up here after Mary said she was sending someone?"

"No, the universe is rarely so lazy" London said, shaking his head sharply when Elliot drew a breath for a retort. "Not coincidence, just bad timing. He knows us, he knows the case. He has every reason to stop by."

"So was Mary!" Elliot shot back. "Jesus Christ, Holmes, if Dimmock's–"

"He's not," London said, tightening his grip slightly, thumbs digging into Elliot's biceps. "He's not."

"How do you know?" Elliot demanded.

"Because I checked. I checked before I even met the man."

"He could have–"

"How do you think he got his job?" London interjected.

"You don't–" Elliot said, cutting himself off when London's words caught up with him. "What?"

"Do you really think that I would let him or anyone else near Cruz if I felt that I couldn't trust them not to harm him or us in anyway?" London replied.

"What? You..."

"Yes. Me. After Wales, after Cruz got shot, it was the least I could do. He needed extra help while he recovered. I found it for him. Dimmock will forever be in our debt."

Elliot stared at London for a moment, then closed his eyes, the fear and anger draining away. London let go; Elliot took a step back to lean against the wall, tilting his head back and pressing a hand over his eyes.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. London stayed still, aware of the time slipping past, bringing Mary's contact closer. "Christ. She could– she could still be lying."

"She could," London agreed. "But I very much doubt it."

"How would you know?" Elliot asked, dropping his head back down. "How the bloody hell would any of us know? No one knew about Mary! If she wanted–"

"I don't think she'd risk it," London said.

"Why the hell not? You said yourself she keeps tabs on us!"

"And she just said that she will put her people first if we force her to choose. She wouldn't be so stupid to try that again."

Elliot stared at him again before sinking into a crouch, back against the wall, hands hanging between his knees.

"Trust?" he asked.

"Mary?"

"Dimmock."

"Yes."

There was no hesitation in his voice, not because he needed to mask it, but because it didn't exist. He'd more than satisfied himself that Anthony Dimmock was who he said he was. There was always a chance he was wrong, but London had acknowledged that and refused to doubt himself – even the smallest doubt would have Elliot questioning it.

London held Elliot's gaze, letting him see nothing but the certainty; the doctor finally nodded, tilting his head back and exhaling a harsh sigh.

"All right," he said, pushing himself to his feet. London scoured the words and Elliot's expression for any hint of mistrust and finding none. "Who is it, then? The person she's sending?"

The buzzer sounded before London could reply, one long trill this time.

"Let's find out, shall we?"

Elliot pushed himself away from the wall, tense, as London pulled the door open.

The ripple of surprise was followed by the realization that he shouldn't be so surprised – it made sense, in retrospect, that he'd been the one to find them. He looked smarter, more urbane, without the search and rescue gear, transplanted effectively from the Welsh wilderness to central London's bustling streets. He wouldn't have looked twice at him here had he not known him, but he did, and all the little cues still gave off the same signals: single, recreational tennis player, suffers from insomnia, youngest of five children, from Cardiff.

"Hello, boys," Benjamin said cheerfully. "I have to say, you look a far sight better than you did last time I saw you."

"This is a bit of a change from last time," Benjamin said, cheerfully accepting the cup of tea a stony-faced London handed to him.

The Consulting Criminal had pulled out all of the stops: offered her his chair, put out a plate of biscuits and used their best tea service, the one with the gold trim that he took diligent care of and had retouched every time it began to fade or looked scratched.

Elliot wondered if Benjamin had any idea how livid that meant London truly was.

Probably, he thought, because he was too determinedly sunny – but then again, he may just have been enjoying himself immensely.

Probably that too, he added, swallowing an angry comment, displacing it by curling his left hand into a fist.

He'd given up his chair to London, not out of any real desire to make sure his partner had somewhere comfortable to sit, but because it meant he was sitting further away from Benjamin and therefore, somehow, further from Mary.

"Yes," London drawled, voice dark. "Consider us even."

"We always were," Benjamin replied, giving him another bright smile. "I was just doing my job, after all."

Something about his tone caught Elliot's attention – he couldn't put his finger on it, but it felt like a penny had dropped, a missing piece slotting into place from a puzzle he hadn't even known existed.

"You knew where we were," he said, the realization only really solidifying as he said it. London turned, almost in slow motion, grey-eyed gaze locking on Elliot, and the shock that the Consulting Criminal hadn't figured it out nearly pinned Elliot to his seat.

He met London's eyes just long enough for something to pass between them, before they both swung their attention back to Benjamin, who at least had the decency to look mildly surprised.

"Not exactly," he said.

"Not exactly?" London echoed, polished accent cold, barely restrained. Benjamin raised his eyebrows and settled back into the chair, doing a very good job, Elliot thought, of not being the least bit intimidated.

"I am a search and rescue worker," he pointed out, "and you were all over the news."

"We could have been anywhere," London pointed out, his tone hard, unyielding.

"You could have," Benjamin agreed, helping himself to a biscuit, annoying Elliot with his unconcerned attitude. "But Mary doesn't like surprises, nor does she like when things doesn't go to plan."

"We aren't hers to make plans for!" Elliot snapped.

"You call her Mary," London noted with an arched eyebrow.

"How the bloody hell is that important?" Elliot demanded, nearly pushing himself off from his chair, perched on the edge, muscles tense and ready for a confrontation.

Benjamin held up a hand, the appeal for calm sending a shock of anger through Elliot that he swallowed on, hard.

Starting a fight wouldn't help Alexandre.

"You know her as Mary, so I'll call her Mary," he said. "It hardly matters to her. And no, Elliot, she knows she has no direct control over you, but your abduction didn't suit any of her purposes."

"So, what, if we had no worth to her, she'd just have us killed?"

"If you had no worth to her, she wouldn't have read your little newspaper piece and I wouldn't be here. There'd be no point in killing you."

Elliot bit back on a retort when London cast him a glance; it was clear enough that he had thought this all through and was fine with it – or at least, Elliot admitted, had made some sort of peace with it. He knew it shouldn't get under his skin but it did. Mary had broken Elliot and thrown his life into further disarray for no reason other than to find out first hand where the Consulting Criminal could possibly be.

She hadn't really known London had still been alive, Elliot told himself firmly.

She'd just guessed.

Unlike him.

"And yes, you could have been anywhere, as far as we knew," Benjamin continued. "That was part of the problem."

"So it was just coincidence that you work in the area we were dumped?" Elliot demanded.

"Yes," he replied. "But it wasn't coincidence that there was unscheduled and non-routine activities in the area that night."

"Which you just happened to hear about," London commented.

"Search and rescue operations have contacts. More than you might suspect."

"I suspect you have more than most," London said.

Benjamin shrugged lightly, unconcerned.

"No one really complains, Holmes, when you get the job done. It's not the first time my extended network has come in handy." He gave them another sunny smile, making Elliot's hands twitch. "Possibly the most important, though."

"This is more important," Elliot snapped.

"Is it?" he asked, turning his suddenly sharp, dark-eyed gaze to him. "A mystery novelist compared to a Scotland Yard Inspector, a genius, and a military doctor? One person compared to three of that caliber?"

"It is right now," London said, dropping the words like a hammer, silencing any further arguments – from either of them.

Benjamin gave him a thoughtful look over the rim of his teacup as he took another sip. Elliot took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly, forcing himself not to react anymore than that.

"Right then," Benjamin said. "Where do we start?"

London smiled, that cold, bright smile that never failed to send a warning chill down Elliot's spine.

"You've got contacts," he pointed out as he stood up from Elliot's chair. "Let's see what they have to say, shall we?"

"That's not how this is going to work."

London froze in the midst of hailing a cab, caught in a suspended moment in which a habitual action was disrupted. His mind stuttered, protesting the interruption, sending a surge of unexpected anger through him.

He'd met them only once before. Granted, he'd saved their lives, but that should by no means have made him an expert in his operations, let alone given him any authority over his actions.

Benjamin stepped forward smoothly when a taxi pulled out of traffic, leaning past London to speak to the driver as if the Consulting Criminal weren't even there.

"Sorry to have stopped you," he said, acting (surely it must be acting?) utterly oblivious to the penetrating glower that would have had most people ducking for cover or stammering a profuse apology. "His mistake."

The cabbie rolled his eyes and drove off, leaving the two of them standing at the edge of the road, Elliot looking almost forlorn and abandoned on the pavement.

"And what do you propose we do?" London drawled, refusing to budge; they were far enough from the flow of traffic that they were hardly in danger of being hit, and he was damned if he was going to give in – even implicitly – to him commandeering of his work.

Benjamin rolled his eyes, slipping his hands casually into the pockets of his trousers but, London noted, also making no move to step off the road and back onto the pavement.

"Time isn't a luxury we have right now, Holmes," he said, and he bristled at the obvious. He could feel each minute ticking past, decreasing the odds of the only desirable outcome.

"Well then?" he demanded.

"Have you ever been fooled by a cabbie?" he asked.

London locked down the impulse to respond, feeling the anger pouring off Elliot like a physical sensation.

He had, twice, and he knew that full well.

"James isn't the only one who can buy off a cabbie to do what he wants," Benjamin said. "Mary wants us all alive, and I intend to stay that way. I am a trained search and rescue worker. You've seen my driving skills first hand." He paused to fish a set of keys out of his trouser pocket. "Let's go."

The weight of Elliot's gaze finally dragged London's attention to the doctor; Elliot was clearly livid, chafing under the growing sense of being manipulated yet again.

The sensation was nearly suffocating. Years of carefully building his reputation, carving out a career for himself, yet he was constantly walking into these webs, trapped in situations orchestrated by unseen forces, being guided like a marionette on very short strings.

He could stop.

Just stop.

Plain and simple.

The realization hit him like a bag of bricks, the shock so strong London was surprised he didn't stagger.

Dragged in its wake was the certainty that he couldn't – not really.

Not ever.

The mere idea of it was even worse than the reality that he was being toyed with, led where someone else wanted him to go.

Without this there was nothing. There was no defense against the lure of cocaine, and with that came the absence of Elliot – out of everything, that was the most paralyzing prospect, that Elliot's presence, so complete and dependable, could vanish as thoroughly as it had when they'd been tossed into the Welsh wilderness.

It would, London knew, kill him.

And Georges Alexander.

"Coming?" Benjamin asked, arching his eyebrows.

London swallowed on everything, giving a curt nod, wishing like hell for colder winter weather instead of the current warmth, so that he could flip up his coat collar and bundle his hands into his pockets, a silent protest against this ridiculous nonsense.

He didn't have that choice.

He didn't have any real choice at all.

Not this time.

London jerked his head at Elliot, who fell in half a step behind him, following Benjamin to the non-descriptive vehicle parked up the street. It was dirty enough not to attract any attention, but not so dirty that it stuck out on London's turbulent streets.

Without being offered, London took the front passenger's seat; he was well aware that it left his partner alone in the back, but he knew Elliot would let him get away with it. The doctor wouldn't be thrilled, but London needed the information that only the better visual access in the front seat could give him.

And he wasn't going to knowing let anyone working for Mary trap them together. There wasn't enough data to confirm that the back doors could be opened from the inside.

"Where are we going?" Elliot asked. Useless. As though Benjamin would answer.

"Airport," he replied, and London felt another jolt of shock nearly ground him, leaving him grateful that he was already seated. "I know a few people there. They might have heard something."

"Is that how you found us?" Elliot demanded, and London kicked himself mentally for not having immediately made the connection.

"They helped," Benjamin replied, putting the car into gear and pulling smoothly into traffic.

It bothered him that his wilderness training had prepared him for this; it was nearly as bad as learning Elliot could drive well in London, too – that still annoyed the Consulting Criminal, who considered that driving in a war zone was no preparation for driving in one of the most civilized cities in the world.

Never mind that Elliot had pointed out that London drivers were hardly polite or patient, and that, as a surgeon, driving had not actually been one of his routine duties in the army.

Benjamin had been raised in Cardiff, London reminded himself. Surely some of his skills must have come from that experience.

And it hardly mattered now – what mattered was the potential data they were going to collect, the scant promise that they may be able to track Georges' movements after he'd left France.

Presuming he'd left France at all.

It was an infuriating sticking point; he had absolutely no information to support that Georges might be here aside from the fact that Mary was and the Woman had been, at least at one point. She must have been recently, even if only briefly, to set her convoluted plans into motion.

London knew her.

As much as Elliot would have disliked hearing that, it remained true.

He knew her.

Almost inside and out.

Mary might have stepped back, orchestrated everything from a distance.

But not the Woman.

She was far too hands-on for that approach.

But it didn't meant Georges was here.

Aside from his connection to Mary, there was no reason for him to be.

And, the Consulting Criminal realized abruptly, he had no guarantee that Mary herself was currently in London. As certain as he was that this was her base – Paris was significantly smaller, increasing her chances of being recognized – there was no reason she had to be here right now.

Which meant Georges could be anywhere.

The world opened up suddenly, like a gaping chasm, reminding him of its immensity. He'd felt it – lived it – during those nine months away, constantly on the move as he snapped the remaining threads of James' web, unknowingly tracing his way to Mary – Amélie – via Sebastian.

That trail had led him back here.

Home.

But this wasn't Georges' home and there was no reason to assume he'd been brought here.

Because this had nothing to do with the Consulting Criminal. 

Not this time.

It was between the Woman and Mary.

Whatever it was didn't have to tie them to London.

The city came back into sharp focus, as if it had vanished and reappeared, leaving the Consulting Criminal all too aware of the sensations – the hum of the engine and the efficient movement of the vehicle under Benjamin's expert guidance, as they slid almost effortlessly through the heavy traffic that contrasted the rows of high, white, stately London homes, the nearly inaudible sound of Elliot's regular breathing in the back seat–

"Stop!" London snapped abruptly, aware of the disruption it caused Elliot, the sudden tension in Benjamin's muscles that he wrested under control with admirable speed – he even remembered to turn on his blinker before pulling off to the side of the street, engine still running.

"Holmes–" Elliot started.

"Stop!" London said again, this time to forestall any discussion, holding his hands up next to his head, the position helping block out extraneous information, letting Elliot know to let him think.

He barely dared to breathe, stalking whatever tenuous connection his mind wanted to make cautiously, afraid if he came straight at it, it would vanish.

Every sound seemed heightened now: the rush of the traffic past his window, the low rumble of the engine, the faint chatter of pedestrians as they passed.

"What–" Benjamin began.

"The Land Rover!" London said, realization hitting him like a flood.

"The Land Rover?" Benjamin repeated. "I don't need an s-and-r vehicle here–"

"Not that one!" The Consulting Criminal snarled. "You can drive in London."

"Obviously," he replied, loosening his grip on the steering wheel slightly, giving him an annoyed look.

"You drive under the most extreme road and weather conditions in Wales. City streets, no matter how big the city, would hardly present a challenge."

"Did you really pull us over to talk about my obvious driving skills?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, impatient.

"Even at night. Even in a larger vehicle."

"No," he sighed, gripping the wheel again. "Can we–"

"Ronald Adair was shot from a vehicle outside his home at night. The angle of the bullet's entry suggested it had to be a higher vehicle. Most likely a Land Rover. Like a soldier in Her Majesty's army might be accustomed to driving. Or a search and rescue worker in northern Wales."

There was no time for the flash of triumph that threatened when Benjamin's confident expression dissolved – nor to banish all of Elliot's confusion.

The doctor would just have to keep up.

He usually managed. 

Mostly.

"Back to Baker Street," London ordered. "Your contacts won't be as useful as a dead man will be right now."

"No." Elliot's hand wrapped around London's wrist, holding hard, stopping the Consulting Criminal from unlocking their front door. "Not a chance," the doctor added, throwing a hard glare at Benjamin.

He paused, eyes tracking a couple of pedestrians until they were out of earshot.

"I'm not having a self-confessed murderer in our apartment," he said, voice low but full of angry menace. The Consulting Criminal decided against pointing out that there was already two murderers living in the apartment.

Behind him, Benjamin raised his eyebrows and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He'd regained his confidence with admirable speed, a trait London suspected was crucial in his official line of work.

Undoubtedly in his unofficial one as well.

"Pot, kettle black. Ring any bells?" Benjamin asked.

"I've never–"

"Yes you have. Unless a serial killing cabbie was shot by accident at long range through at least two sets of windows."

London moved like lightning, putting himself between them, a hand resting lightly on Elliot's chest to keep the doctor from moving.

"Inside," he snapped. "Both of you. Now."

He leaned past Elliot, thankful for the difference in height, to unlock and push the door inward, propelling him inside. London shut the door after Benjamin, giving him a warning glare.

"You'd do well to remember the number of people I know not only at Scotland Yard but the British Government," he said, then turned his attention to Elliot, wrapping a hand around his partner's bicep and catching the flicker in Elliot's eyes at the intimacy of the action.

"It wasn't him," he said.

"What?" Elliot demanded. London spared Benjamin a glance; he was leaning against the wall, arms folded, expression not quite shuttered enough to mask the hint of curiosity and apprehension.

"He was the driver, Elliot, not the shooter. It would be inefficient to attempt both, particularly in central London."

Elliot's nostrils flared as he exhaled, visibly annoyed at being wrong.

"Who was it then?" he demanded.

"Not a chance," Benjamin replied, echoing his recent words. London swallowed his own irritation at the way the comment made Elliot tense, tendons jutting out along the sides of  his neck as he balled his hands into fists.

"We don't even know if Adair is connected to this," he pointed out.

"We don't know yet," London replied.

"It would be a hell of a coincidence."

"No," London murmured, feeling the tug of something at the back of his mind, annoyed at the trivial necessities that required him to keep talking."The universe is rarely so lazy."

He refocused, ignoring his mind's protest.

"We need everything Mary has on Adair."

Benjamin snorted, giving his head a sharp shake.

"That's not going to happen."

"She sent you to work with us."

"To find Georges Alexandre. Not to meddle in her business."

"Georges is her business, although I'm certain he'd rather not be. Would you like to explain to her that we turned down a chance of finding him because you assumed Mary wouldn't provide us with potentially pertinent information?"

"The key word there being 'potentially'."

"She sent you to speak through you," London pointed out, arching an eyebrow. "Not to speak for her. I can concoct another code, but I doubt she'd be especially happy to see you shirking your responsibilities."

Benjamin rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air with a quick, exasperated movement.

"All right, fine," he said. "But I do this on my own. Mary decides what you need to know, not the other way around."

"Obviously," London drawled as Elliot opened his mouth to retort. The doctor snapped his mouth shut, shooting the Consulting Criminal a dark glare.

"We have our own work to do," he continued, putting a hand on Elliot's back and steering the doctor toward the ground floor apartment. "You'll know where to find us when you have what we need."

"Alexander sent someone to pick up all of Adair's files," Elliot said. "I already know this. I saw it happen."

London ignored him – no surprise there – to fold himself down onto his knees and elbows, dislodging a puff of dust when he dragged a flat box out from underneath the couch.

"You saw some files being returned," London agreed. "But not the important ones."

Elliot rolled his eyes and sighed, but didn't comment – London would defend the action as prescience, even if it was really just his pack-rat tendencies and his inability to let Alexander have the final say over a case they'd considered resolved.

"What are we looking for?" he asked, settling on the couch as London thrust a pair of files at him.

"Anything familiar," the Consulting Criminal replied. "Anything referring to her or anyone connected to her."

"You're connected to her," Elliot pointed out. London's jaw tightened, his gaze becoming fixed on the stack of papers he'd spread out before him, too rigid to be only concentration.

"Yes," he said curtly.

"If your name was mentioned in here, don't you think Alexander would have realized?"

Another hesitation, and a sharp nod.

"Yes," London repeated.

Elliot sighed silently, flipping the first file open, not surprised by the mess of papers within. London had probably rammed the contents of several files into one before returning the rest to his brother's aide. He might have had some kind of system for determining what to keep and what to send back, but Elliot suspected part of it had been haphazard, born of a need to annoy his older brother.

If Alexander had even noticed.

The older Holmes brother had considered the case closed – London certainly had, at least in terms of the murderer's identity.

It was annoying now to know that wasn't true.

And infuriating to know that because of it, an innocent man was missing.

"You've gone through these before," Elliot pointed out, skimming a meaningless list of dates and associated illegible notes. "Wouldn't you have picked up on her name?"

"He recorded everything as initials," London murmured, attention mostly focused on the work now. "And I had no reason to keep looking after finding Moran's name in his notes."

Elliot nodded vaguely, flipping over a page, aware that the motion caught London's eye.

"Stop!" his partner snapped, a hand closing around Elliot's wrist, the sudden restriction making him tense. "Give me that."

He plucked the sheet from Elliot's folder with his free hand, releasing the doctor and turning away abruptly. Elliot breathed out slowly and deliberately – no matter how long he'd known London or how physical they'd been, he didn't think he'd ever get over the instinctive military reaction to being restrained so unexpectedly.

The Consulting Criminal completely failed to notice – of course – hurriedly spreading out several sheets of paper that he'd pulled from other files, seemingly at random. Elliot leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to see a pattern in the handwritten columns.

"What do you notice about the ink?" London demanded.

"It's blue," Elliot said.

"Yes! All of it!"

"So what?" Elliot asked wearily. "Blue ink isn't exactly uncommon."

"But it's all the same ink!" London cried, springing to his feet. "Think about it! When we found Adair, he had ink on his fingers – blue ink, from a fountain pen. A man like him wouldn't bother with cheap pens but he kept a specific pen to make these records – why?"

"I wasn't with you when you saw Adair," Elliot said.

London froze in mid-step, grey-eyed gaze turning on Elliot like a laser, but his expression was full of surprise. Elliot raised his eyebrows pointedly, wondering how often London had inserted him into the memories of events he hadn't been present for.

"This was a man who could – and did – hire people to keep track of his correspondence and financial records for him, but information like this, he wouldn't have trusted to anyone else."

"The way Alexandre's info was, from your brother," Elliot said.

"Precisely!" London replied, the brief gleam in his eyes making Elliot roll his; of course he'd see this murdered man as somehow one-upping his brother.

"He had this same ink on his fingers when he was murdered, which means he'd been very recently updating these records."

"But you didn't find him with any of this," Elliot hazarded.

"No, but I was by no means the first one there."

"Who found him?"

London paused, and Elliot saw him slide away, eyelids flickering as he scanned through his Mind Palace.

All he could do was wait.

"One of the household staff. Or so I was told. Alexander was there before me, and the military police."

"So any one of those people could have taken the records from him and hidden them."

"Or destroyed them," London agreed. "Presuming he hadn't already hidden them away and simply hadn't had the time to properly wash his hands."

"Okay, but how did Alexander end up with all of this?" Elliot asked. "If these were secret records, why didn't he make a big deal of them when he gave them to you?"

"The best disguise is hiding in plain sight," London replied. "To the casual observer – or even an interested one without the right context – these aren't very informative. A list of dates and initials, some with brief notes, personally coded, but if Adair hadn't ended up a victim of Mary's assassins, something like this wouldn't have raised any flags to anyone else who happened upon it."

Elliot sat back, thinking quickly.

"And to someone who isn't a casual observer?" he asked. London's lips twitched, the expression almost immediately quelled, but the gleam of triumph in his eyes didn't fade.

"There's a distinct pattern. Look here." Elliot did as bidden, following London's index finger as it traced passed several entries labelled 'T.W.'."Here's where they switch, approximately two months before his death. When he learned The Woman's name."

Elliot started, glancing up from the first entry labelled 'I.A', shaking his head.

"It could be someone else," he protested.

"It could be," London agreed. "There are other new initials that post-date 'I.A'," he tapped on one labelled 'R.D., Sr' for emphasis, "and there are certainly others that cross this barrier consistently," here London indicated two sets of initials, 'C.B.' and 'M.P.F.', that were repeated fairly consistently, "but the frequency with which The Woman is noted increases until he makes the switch to her proper name."

"So he knew who she was," Elliot said. "Couldn't he have been one of her clients?"

London cleared his throat quietly, the uncomfortable response sitting poorly with Elliot.

"Possibly, but unlikely. He would have known her name if that were the case."

"Unless he started using her initials when he became a client. Maybe he was just in negotiations up until that point."

London pursed his lips, eyes darting away. Elliot gave in, unwilling to pursue that line of inquiry any further.

"You don't think so," he guessed.

"No," London said, looking relieved. "Think about it. Ronald Adair knew everyone. By virtue of his family, his education, his personality, and undoubtedly his concerted efforts, he had more connections than most MI5 agents can probably boast. If you wanted something – if you wanted information – and you moved in the right circles, why wouldn't you go to him? Especially–"

He cut himself off at the sound of a perfunctory knock and the door to the ground floor apartment being pushed open. Benjamin came in, looking mildly displeased.

"Ronald Adair was–"

"Selling information about Mary to The Woman."

Benjamin snapped his mouth shut, eyes going wide with surprise that Elliot felt mirrored in himself.

"What? How do you know that?"

"Observation and deduction," London replied brusquely. "The question is, what information?"

"That I don't know. No, don't even start! We didn't know who he was selling it to until this mess happened. Only that he was."

"Someone found out before you," London said.

"Right, you did, congratulations," Benjamin sighed. "Why have me bother with calling Mary if you already knew?"

"If I'd known this before today, I wouldn't have," London replied crisply. "I'm not talking about myself. Look."

He crouched down, jabbing one of Adair's note sheets again; Elliot let his gaze follow the motion to the initials London had pointed to earlier: 'R.D., Sr'. With a soft sigh, Benjamin crossed the room, glancing down to where the Consulting Criminal was indicating.

"Somebody, Senior?" he asked.

"That's American, isn't it? Most likely?" Elliot said.

"Or it's meant to look that way," London replied. "Read another way, it's being use as 'Sir'."

"Sir?" Elliot echoed, glancing at Benjamin, who looked as befuddle as he felt, before some slow realization began to take hold. "R.D. is–" London nodded, arching an eyebrow, grey eyes serious. "Richard Douglas. Sir Richard Douglas."

"Precisely," London replied.

"But we still don't know what the information was," Elliot protested, feeling cast adrift, scrambling to understand the connections.

"No," London agreed. "But someone does. And I suggest we start by finding out if anyone even tangentially connected to either of them hired Kareem Sarraf to courier any messages."

"We'd already knew that though," Elliot pointed out. "We were looking for that connection between them when they were murdered."

"Between Douglas and Sarraf, yes," London agreed, casting a brief look at Benjamin, who had perched himself on the arm of a chair, arms folded, watching him expectantly. "Not between Sarraf and Adair. Adair might have been the one paying for Sarraf's services. Or one of Adair's people."

"Great," Elliot muttered, tendons on the backs of his hands jutting out as he rubbed his palms together roughly. "That really narrows it down, doesn't it? Between Richard Douglas and Adair, we might as well interview the entire planet."

"We start with their mutual acquaintances," London said. Elliot gave him a sharp looking and a harsh sigh. The task of pinpointing a valuable common thread between Douglas and Adair was likely to be as time consuming and challenging as it would have been finding that same link between Adair and Alexander.

"Well, we know they both knew Irene," Elliot snapped. "She's on Adair's list, and she had Douglas murdered."

"I thought Douglas helped her get access to those tunnels," Benjamin said. "What?" he asked when two surprises gazes swung her way. "You know Mary reads about your little adventures. Why shouldn't I?"

"He got her access to the tunnels that led to his building. Where she had him murdered."

"But why?" Benjamin asked.

"Because of Georges Alexandre," London replied brusquely. "The symbols on the tunnel walls are the same as those used on the cover of his latest book."

"I know that," Benjamin sighed, eyes bright with exasperation. "I know she was trying to get you interested in him to figure out who he was and why his name was linked with Mary – but it's stupid to kill someone just because they got you access to some tunnels."

"It's all a game to her," Elliot muttered.

"And that's still a stupid move," Benjamin said. "He might not have even known he was working for her. Sarraf either. Why kill either of them? There was nothing else down there except those symbols, not if you take away Douglas' body. Why would he care about some graffiti on a tunnel wall? It's not–"

"It's not enough," London interrupted, pushing himself to his feet, muscles tense as he held himself in still, poised, waiting for the tenuous connections skirting the edges of his mind to creep into his reach.

"But what if–" Elliot started, momentarily silenced when London held up a hand, but refusing to back down altogether. "No, Holmes, what if that was enough? It wouldn't be the first time she'd done this kind of thing!"

"Neither of them could be mistaken for the Woman, Elliot!" London snapped. "Quiet!"

Elliot huffed, sitting back abruptly in his chair. London ignored him with some effort, following mental flickering pathways, getting side-tracked and turned about.

It wasn't enough.

Unpleasant to have to do this out loud with someone else here, but there was nothing for it.

"Adair was selling information on Mary," he began, marshaling the events and information into some kind of order – there was a logic here, even if it wasn't evident at the moment.

He would make it evident. Force it into the light and strip away all of the clutter until he got to the core of it.

"Yes," Benjamin replied.

"But you don't know what. Mary does – it may or may not be important."

Benjamin only shrugged; London felt the heat of Elliot's glower directed at him.

"He was selling it to the Woman, which meant it was valuable - not the information about Mary's relationship to Georges, because then Mary would have known about him. Something professional is the most likely scenario."

He paused, glancing down at Elliot, who was watching him intently, in part, London suspected, to avoid having to look at Benjamin any more than necessary.

"He was also in contact with Richard Douglas. Who was working for the Woman. That meant that Douglas knew something about her. A man in his position would want to meet his employer – he would know he was working for her," he added, directing the comment at Benjamin, who only shrugged again.

"Adair was resourceful. So was Douglas." London stopped abruptly, turning fully to face Elliot, hands up, fingers splayed. Elliot gave him an expectant look, sitting forward slightly, but kept silent.

"How long had they known each other?" London asked. Elliot's eyes widened slightly, lips parting in surprise as realization dawned.

That hadn't mattered when they'd investigated Adair's murder. It hadn't come up when they'd investigated Richard Douglas' murder, but they hadn't been looking for it. The connection might have been there, buried within each man's myriad of contacts, a tiny and innocuous piece of information that might have tied everything together so much sooner.

"Do you think they–"

"No!" London said, pressing his fingertips to his temples. "Yes, I'm certain they did! We need to know but not right now. Stop. Let me think."

He brought his palms together, fingertips resting just below his nose, and held himself still again. The weight of expectation in the room a physical sensation as two gazes held him fast, tense and anxious.

Adair had information on Mary, something he'd been willing to sell to the Woman. The nature of that information might matter, but it might not, and London didn't have access to it.

Yet.

He would – Benjamin could be persuaded to persuade Mary, he was certain of that, but it wasn't crucial right now.

The Woman would have wanted the information for something.

It wasn't Adair's death that had put her onto Mary's trail. But perhaps the abrupt, and very final, abortion of that deal had turned her attention more closely to Mary.

And to Adair's other contacts.

"That's how she found Douglas," London said, aware only then that he'd spoken the rest out loud.

"Yeah, but why kill him?" Elliot insisted. "What did he have on her?"

London froze, feeling suspended, as if the world has slowed around him so that the seconds crawled by while the realizations slotted themselves almost effortlessly into place.

He met Elliot's gaze, but the doctor seemed so distant, even sitting forward on the couch, the hand on the arm rest bunched into a fist, the muscles around his jaw tight.

Benjamin drew a breath; London heard it dimly, more aware of Elliot's reaction stopping it, the way the doctor held up a hand, the movement sharp and economical. So very military. Elliot hadn't torn his gaze away and London felt caught by it, as though the two of them might stay, ensnared, in that moment.

"What could he have on her that was worth selling?" London asked, watching as the words sunk in, the confusion making Elliot's eyes gleam.

"The one thing she would go to any lengths to protect."

Elliot's features relaxed, his tongue darting out to lick his lips quickly.

"Those– those bloody photos," he said.

"Yes," London agreed.

"But– how? You kept them, didn't you?"

"Yes," London repeated. "But Alexander knew the code to the safe I had them. You gave Alexander's people access to my office. And our apartment while I was gone."

He was aware of Benjamin's gaze alternating between them, but he was mercifully silent, impatience kept in check.

"You– you think he– you didn't take them with you?"

"No," London replied, displeased by Elliot's surprise, logical though it was. Neither of them had known, back then, what was coming. To Elliot, both London and the Woman had been dead. To London, she'd existed merely in the background then, unimportant compared to the threat to Elliot's life, the imagery and words irrelevant to dismantling James' network.

Alexander would have known it was here, somewhere.

He'd had every opportunity to find it and remove it.

And ample opportunity to return it before the Consulting Criminal had come home.

London had checked for them shortly after returning, after Elliot had let him move back in. It had been where he'd left it, undisturbed.

Or so it had seemed.

"But– Alexander wouldn't sell them. Would he?"

"Hardly," London replied. "And he thought she was dead." They all had – London had seen to the perpetuation of that lie, and the flare of anger in Elliot's eyes was enough to remind him of the damage that had done.

"But Alexander's people aren't Alexander," he continued. "My brother wouldn't part with information like that. Other people would."

"But why?" Elliot demanded.

"Money," London and Benjamin said in unison.

"If Alexander thought she was dead, wouldn't his people?" Elliot asked. "What good would selling that information do?"

"There's no reason to assume he shared her apparent death with everyone," London replied.

Elliot stared at him a moment, hands tensing into fists.

"So, someone working for your brother thought she was alive because Alexander didn't tell them she was dead?"

"Right for the wrong reasons," London said. "Exactly."

Elliot sighed harshly, sitting back in his chair again, eyes flickering away briefly.

He didn't dare say it, not with Benjamin here, but London saw the reproach etched clearly into the doctor's features.

This is a right fucking mess you've made, isn't it?

London swallowed his indignation, seeing the irritation tempered when Elliot met his gaze again – possibly some of this might have been averted if he'd told Alexander about the Woman's continued existence.

But unlikely.

"Would Mary buy that kind of information?" Elliot demanded, turning his attention to Benjamin.

He shrugged, expression less disinterested than his body language might otherwise suggest.

"It's possible."

"Information is power, Elliot," London added.

"I thought it was knowledge that was power," Elliot sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger.

"You need information to have knowledge," London replied. "Safe to say, however, Mary might not have known she'd had it. A lot of information comes her way. No way to go through all of it, particularly if it doesn't seem relevant."

Benjamin sighed, spreading his hands.

"I don't know what she sees, or doesn't see."

"If she'd seen this, we'd know," London said. "It's about the Woman, and the Woman has her brother. She may not want us to know her secrets, but she'd have no scruples about sharing the Woman's with us. Not if it helped find Georges."

He stopped speaking abruptly and turned back to Elliot, extending a hand. The doctor looked at it, befuddled, before raising his puzzled gaze to meet London's firm one.

"What?" Elliot asked.

"Get up," London replied. "Benjamin, get your car keys. We're going."

"Not to Mary we're not," Benjamin replied sharply.

"No," London agreed. Mary had made him a promise, after all – he'd never see her again. "To my brother." He flashed Benjamin a smile, dangerous and cold.

"I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you."

Benjamin been left to wait in the lobby under orders from the security personnel in Alexander's building – only London and Elliot had been granted access to the older Holmes' office, and only under condition of an escort.

Two guards were stationed outside the closed door, which had left Elliot wondering why they'd been given unsupervised access to Alexander's office.

The fact that the Consulting Criminal hadn't immediately used the opportunity to start rifling through his brother's files was surprising; the fact that he kept himself restrained was even more so. They'd been kept waiting for ten minutes now, and Elliot hadn't missed the growing exasperation in London's expression.

It annoyed Elliot too, especially now, that Alexander would keep them waiting when someone's life was at risk.

London didn't bother explaining himself, but pulled a very small sealed bag from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, handing it to Elliot.

It landed heavily in Elliot's palm, the white powder inside the bag shifting slightly as did the note attached to it.

"You owe me."

The bag was taken from him and tossed lightly on Alexander's desk, a tiny disruption that threatened to derail Elliot's train of thought altogether.

"Baking powder and salt," London said. "He can use it in a cake. But it will get his attention."

"Christ," Elliot sighed. "You don't–"

"No, I don't have any," London snapped. "Feel free to check when this is all over."

Elliot's hands curled into his fists of their own accord; he relaxed them deliberately, shaking his head.

"No," he replied. "I believe you."

There was something in London's expression – surprise or some hint of vulnerability – that startled Elliot.

London hadn't expected to be believed. Not without physical proof.

Elliot knew he had more than enough reason to demand that physical proof – he'd recognize the signs of London being high immediately, but the Consulting Criminal could have any number of hiding places in either their apartment or the still vacant ground floor apartment that Elliot would never find.

He might not know until it was too late.

But Elliot had to start somewhere, and the Consulting Criminal hadn't been high at least since he'd come back to England all those months ago.

It would always be a battle but London was trying and so far succeeding but there was always that fear.

But right now there was a much more pressing matter.

He clenched his hands again, releasing them only when London's gaze flickered downward, expression displeased.

"Sit," London ordered, nodding at one of the chairs in front of Alexander's desk. Elliot gave him a puzzled look but did as bidden, confusion growing when his partner sat across from him, leaning forward to snag Elliot's left wrist.

Elliot tensed instinctively, trying to pull away, but London held firm, meeting the doctor's gaze levelly. A deep breath helped Elliot relax, and he nodded once, curtly, giving permission for London to do whatever it was he had in mind.

London curled both of his hands under Elliot's, thumbs pressing into Elliot's palm, digging in slow, deep circles.

The surprise made him tense again; London arched an eyebrow pointedly and Elliot forced himself to relax, to let his muscles release so that London was supporting the weight of his hand fully.

The muscles in his hand resisted briefly, but London knew what he was doing. The Consulting Criminal's knowledge of anatomy wasn't as strong as Elliot's, but better than most people's, and London had made a very conscious study of Elliot's body.

Elliot had to admit it did help, but made him ruefully aware of the aches and tension everywhere else. He was going to pay for all of this once they'd found Alexandre – and they would find Alexandre.

He could wait, he decided grimly. He had no other choice.

The sound of a phone ringing startled London slightly, and Elliot felt a pang of regret when he pulled away to answer it.

"Go home."

London pulled Elliot to his feet and crossing the office in one long stride to yank the door open. The security guards Alexander had insisted upon look startled, but London brushed right past them, Elliot in his wake, leaving them scrambling to catch up.

They met Alexander on the stairs, the older Holmes brother clearly displeased by their sudden appearance, reproaches and accusations lining up to be voiced, but London pushed past him, barely deigning to glance back.

"It was fake!" he shouted back, leaving Elliot to give Alexander a somewhat apologetic shrug in lieu of explanation, clattering down the stairs so close behind London he had to take care not to trip his partner.

London stopped in the middle of the lobby, so abruptly that Elliot had to rein himself in hard to keep from colliding with the Consulting Criminal, ignoring the near impact to scour the area the way London was doing, searching for and failing to find a familiar face. Those coming or going from the building gave them odd looks, a few startled glances darting their way when London snarled, a dangerous sound. Elliot put a hand on London's arm instinctively, the same tension of denial tightening his own muscles.

He'd been their only link to Mary.

The only way to access the information they desperately needed.

"He said he had to go," a voice said from behind them, and Elliot turned as London did, the security guard taking a startled step back at the sudden animosity directed his way. The guard held up his hands, as if that might ward them off, giving his head a quick shake. "See and observe."

"What?" London demanded, taking a step forward, forcing the guard backwards.

"I don't know but that's what he said!"

"London!" Alexander's voice echoed, augmented by the marble flooring, as he strode toward them. London snarled again; Elliot ignored them both.

"Come on," he said, dropping his hand to snag London's wrist. "We're going."

He expected an argument, but grey eyes raked quickly over his features and London nodded once, a hard, sure motion.

"London!" his brother called again, exasperation coarsening the edges of his polished accent.

"No time, brother mine" London called back, catching Elliot's hand, pulling them both toward the door. London's name sounded behind them again; it was easily ignored as they pushed out of the building, Elliot squinting slightly in the sudden sunlight, shading his eyes to clatter down the steps towards the street, where London dislodged some hapless stranger from the cab he'd just hailed, a curt tone and a twenty pound note suppressing any protest from the driver.

"Baker Street," London ordered, each word dropped like a ton of bricks, leaving no room for argument. "Now."

"You're saying no one could have found it," Elliot asked, half a question, half a disbelieving statement.

"Not unless they'd known where to look," London confirmed. "Ingenious, really. Freely available but utterly inaccessible."

"Jesus," Elliot muttered, passing a hand over his eyes. "And Richard Douglas sold this to Mary?"

"To one of Mary's people, most likely."

"So, what– she has no idea she has it?"

"I suspect she does now," London said. "But not before today, no."

"Well that's just bloody great, isn't it? She has Irene's– information, Irene has her brother, they've both managed to have the people linking this all together killed! It's– it's–"

"Messy," London supplied.

"Holmes, it's a fucking disaster! This– this is worse than James!"

Elliot knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say, the meaning of his words catching up with his outrage and making his blood run cold, but London was calm when he put his notepad down, meeting Elliot's gaze levelly.

"No, it isn't," he said, and there was no banked anger in his voice, no hint of a storm beneath. Just a statement of fact. "And under any other circumstances I'd suggest we step back immediately, but a man's life is at stake and the only people involved for whom this isn't personal is us."

"Isn't personal?" Elliot snapped, mind reeling at the absurdity of the statement. "She– both of them–"

"This," London said, tapping the files, "is personal to the Woman. It's her insurance policy. Her life. And Georges is personal to Mary, even if he wasn't last week. He's family. Neither of those things are true for us."

"What about those nine and a half months?" Elliot snapped.

London was still and silent for a moment, and Elliot thought he'd miscalculated again, but the Consulting Criminal shook his head.

"No," he said.

Elliot was enraged.

Despite everything the Consulting Criminal went through in those months, for whatever reason it still seemed he refused to take it personally. Elliot took a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly, repeating the action, catching London's watchful glare, and the cautious approval.

"What do we do now?" he demanded. "We've come home, but only because Benjamin told us to – and he's buggered off, so what good is that?"

"I don't think that was intentional," London replied.

"What? Holmes, he left!"

"And you heard what Mary told us. She'll protect her people first. Benjamin didn't leave, he was recalled. And I doubt he was asked to pass on this particular piece of information first."

"So what, Mary just gave it to him and expected he'd keep quiet about it?"

"As far as we know, Mary has no reason to suspect Benjamin won't keep her confidence. But you're assuming Mary knew about this before Benjamin did."

Elliot stared at London for a moment, cajoling his brain into catching up.

"Benjamin found this? How?"

"I don't know," London sighed. "And it doesn't matter. What does matter is that we have the information."

"What good does it do us, Holmes? You've had access to this for ages!"

"Not to the knowledge that Mary owned the information – even if she did so unknowingly."

"So what?" Elliot snapped. "We know what she has on Irene – why does that matter? How does it get us any closer to finding Alexandre?"

London stood, gaze flickering over Elliot before moving away toward a distance that Elliot couldn't see.

Elliot let himself collapse into his chair, partly to get out of the Consulting Criminal's way as he paced silently, eyes narrowed in concentration, hands pressed together just under his nose. Elliot drummed his fingers quietly on the arm of his chair, half wondering if the noise would distract London, but it didn't.

London stopped abruptly; Elliot waited for some dramatic revelation, tension creeping back into his muscles when it didn't come.

"He sent us home," London murmured, stock still, eyes still focused on something Elliot couldn't see. "Why?"

"To see and observe," Elliot replied shortly.

"Yes," London said, swinging his gaze to Elliot. "And no. It wasn't about anyone's sensibilities, he wanted us to see it, no one else."

"So there you go," Elliot sighed. "Where does that get us?"

"The instruction doesn't make sense, Elliot! 'Go home.'"

"What doesn't make sense about it?" Elliot asked, keeping his patience in check as best he could. "We did it, didn't we?"

"Yes, but the logical instruction would be 'read this on your own' or similar. Not 'go home'. He wanted us here."

"To do what?" Elliot snapped, but London ignored him, turning slowly in place, eyes flickering over the apartment as if seeing it for the first time.

"He's not here," Elliot said. "We'd know."

"Yes," London murmured again. Elliot pressed a fist against his mouth, drumming the fingers of his other hand against the chair again.

"Nor his place in Paris," Elliot said. "We'd know that, too."

London didn't answer, expression distant again, but more briefly this time; he rounded on Elliot so suddenly the doctor started, trying but failing to contain the reaction.

"I'm having tea at an old friend's."

"What?" Elliot asked, befuddled, scrambling to understand.

"Mary said that to me, the last time I spoke to her."

"So?" Elliot barely had the word out of his mouth when all of a sudden he saw it; The Consulting Criminal had returned. London had finally unlocked the correct door and found what he was looking for since they had gotten the cryptic phone call in Alexander's office.

"Oh this is bloody brilliant! It's not our home Benjamin meant!"

Now that he had seen and observed, London moved in a blur over to the phone and quickly dialed a number.

"Brother mine–" Alexander's voice came through, exasperated and impatient.

"Have you checked the house in Belgravia Square?"

"London–"

"Alexander, have you checked the house in Belgravia Square!"

"Yes, of course we have. Give us some credit, please. It's currently occupied, and not by anyone connected to that Woman."

"Check it again," London insisted.

"I've had it under constant surveillance since this began," Alexander sighed.

"Then check Mary's old residence."

"We've done that too. It's also under surveillance. We've cleared all the private places associated with either of them."

"Only the ones that you know about," London snapped.

"Obviously only the ones we know about, brother," Alexander sighed, and London rolled his eyes. "We could scarcely investigate the ones we aren't aware of. What have you got?"

"I don't know yet. I'll call you," London replied, ringing off abruptly before Alexander could get another word in.

"Holmes–" Elliot began, no more successfully than Alexander; London held up a hand, silencing him. Elliot bit his lower lip against the flare of annoyance, watching impatiently as London stood still, the flickering of his eyelashes the only indication that he wasn't simply staring off into space.

"All of the private places associated with either of them!" London said suddenly, turning back to crouch in front of Elliot, hands on the arms of Elliot's chair effectively pinning the doctor in. "What if it's not somewhere private?"

"The middle of Trafalgar Square would be a bit obvious, wouldn't it?"

"Not a public space either. Somewhere in between. Private property but not precisely private space, not yet."

"Holmes–" Elliot tried again.

"The city doesn't follow me everywhere."

Elliot started, the words repeating himself in his mind, but in his own voice this time.

"Battersea? But it's–"

"Being turned into homes, yes. Not a public space, but not precisely a private space, not yet."

"But surely someone would have noticed!"

"Maybe, but money can buy a great deal of silence or perhaps even… construction delays due to technical issues with the permitting."

"I'll call Cruz," Elliot said, pushing London back as he got himself to his feet.

"Wait,". 

Elliot could hear the clock ticking on the mantle, slower than the ticking of the Consulting Criminal's mind, but each second was slicing away more of Alexandre's time, decreasing their odds of finding him alive.

"Holmes–"

"Go home," London said, echoing Benjamin's instruction again. "It is a fitting instruction. Two houses, one of them purchased outright by an American family who seem to have no connection to any of this, the other through a legal corporation on behalf of someone who doesn't appear to exist at all, although if I had the time, I could run it down to the person behind it. The woman behind it."

"You think–"

"Either one of them, I'm not sure which. Some bizarre sentimentality on the Woman's part? Coincidence on Mary's part?"

"But if Mary bought it, it wouldn't be coincidence for Irene to take Alexandre there," Elliot said.

"Precisely. Get your gun."

Elliot ignored the Consulting Criminal, choosing to move to the phone. London snagged his wrist with lightning speed, stopping the motion short.

"We have a much better chance of getting in unnoticed without all of the sirens."

"We can't just leave the police out of this!"

"I'm not suggesting we do," London replied. "Just allow me to delay it a bit, please? For Alexandre's sake."

"Why? You don't think that's the worst thing we could do for him?"

"If I were anyone else, yes," London said. Elliot rolled his eyes. "Trust me."

"This is a man's life, Holmes!"

"And I made a promise to save it, didn't I? Two people can get in where twenty cannot. Especially the two of us. Especially here."

Elliot warred with himself for a long moment before relenting, relaxing his grip enough that London released him, letting move away from the phone.

"The minute we get there, Holmes," he said, leaving no room for argument. "And if anyone starts shooting, I'll bloody knock you out myself if I have to to keep you out of it. Understood?"

London nodded, lips twitching, but there wasn't so much as a flicker of amusement in his expression.

"Understood."

'Jesus'. Elliot thought, eyes skimming the outline of the old power station in the fading daylight. Silhouettes of cranes towered above the construction site, illuminated only by warning lights to alert airplanes, but the sprawling building itself was dark.

It seemed larger than he remembered it – some of that was the scaffolding but it was mostly the stark reality that this time, he wasn't being led somewhere specific. He'd had a guide of sorts last time.

And Irene had wanted to be found.

Now they were going in blind, just the two of them. Armed, yes, but without knowing what they would find.

His memory wavered for a moment, threatening to send him back to Wales and to Afghanistan at the same time; Elliot set his jaw, drawing his gun and following London's careful path through the construction site toward the building.

Wales didn't matter here, but Afghanistan did. A hand on London's arm stopped the Consulting Criminal, and Elliot took the lead, slipping so easily back into thinking and moving like a soldier that it almost surprised him. He shelved that, keeping his focus on what he'd been trained to do so long ago.

London fell in behind him without question or protest, letting Elliot take charge; the doctor gave himself a brief moment to be grateful for that without becoming distracted by it.

Every sense stayed tuned to his immediate environment, scanning the shadows for places where there might be movement or too much depth, listening for anything outside of the distant sounds of London or the shifting of the evening breeze across tarps.

They could be in the wrong place.

It could be a trap.

It could be both of those things at the same time.

The silence didn't feel false, but Elliot didn't trust it all the same.

If Alexandre was in there, they owed it to him to find out – and Elliot was acutely aware that they might not have another chance if they passed this one up.

The police were on their way, he reminded himself.

And London had been right. They were more likely to get in unnoticed just the two of them than an entire armed force would be.

Elliot set his jaw again, hoping like hell they'd been unnoticed. London had navigated through blind spots as much as possible.

Elliot saw no indication of security, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

He felt like he was being watched, even through the apparently sincere silence. Someone could have been watching from a distance.

This was a game to her, after all. One in which they weren't the goal – Elliot held no illusions that he was anything more than a pawn for Irene, but he wondered darkly where London fit into her plans. He doubted the Consulting Criminal was as disposable as he himself was, and it wouldn't have surprised him if London was being strung along.

Again.

For fun, or for some ulterior motive.

Elliot smothered the flash of fury, checking his breath to keep it calm.

Whatever her plans for London might be, they hardly mattered.

It was his own plans for London that were important. And he planned on both of them being back at Baker Street before the sun came back up, with Alexandre safely on his way back to France.

He fixed that image in his mind, a stubborn frame of reference, and motioned to London to crouch down. The Consulting Criminal did so without hesitation, but Elliot could feel the questions and concern directed his way; he ignored them, taking shelter behind a low stack of bricks.

He scanned the entrance – it was their best choice, closest and most accessible, which made it the most obvious as well. Anyone waiting for them would set up on the other side, an easy position to ambush from

Still, he doubted Irene would leave any entrance uncovered if she wanted to catch them immediately. Best to take the most obvious entrance. It was clear enough on this side for him to feel confident that no one was waiting to catch them up before they got inside.

That was something at least.