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Pas si lmentaire II: Tu m'as Manqu? Started by: LondonHolmes on Apr 11, '19 11:30

London gestured to Elliot, keeping low as they crept toward the building, each of them moving to stand on either side of the open entrance, backs against the wall, guns ready. There was no door, just an empty frame covered by a sheet of plastic. It took undisturbed, the plastic fixed firmly to the plywood walls, and the staples holding it in place didn't look fresh.

He nodded at London, who drew a pen knife deftly from a pocket and sliced a neat line through the plastic next to the door frame. London twitched the now-loose plastic aside with one foot; Elliot positioned himself quickly to fire if needed.

The breeze played at the free edge of the plastic, but beyond that, nothing stirred. Elliot shifted his stance slightly, giving London another curt nod. He wasn't happy about it, but the Consulting Criminal was closer to the makeshift entrance and Elliot was already in a position to cover him as much as possible.

London met his gaze squarely, the look in his grey eyes speaking volumes. Elliot swallowed hard, adjusting his grip on his gun.

The moment it took for London to duck under the plastic was less than the space of a breath, but Elliot felt suspended in it, chest and shoulders tight, senses on alert. The quick activity was followed by a taut silence, before London whispered Elliot's name as an all-clear.

Elliot steeled himself and slipped inside, plunged immediately into darkness that was illuminated by the bright beam of London's flashlight. Instinctively he pulled out his own, positioning it under his weapon with practiced habit.

He swung the light around him, tracing upward along a vaulting space, distracted when London nudged his foot, directing his gaze downward. The Consulting Criminal's flashlight skittered over relatively fresh footprints impressed faintly into the dust and dirt on the building's floor.

Whoever it was hadn't come in the same way they had, but had gone past here.

Elliot met London's gaze and nodded again, gesturing quickly in the direction the scuff marks had most likely gone. The trail was fairly indistinct, and any shoe size or type was masked by scuffing, but his own good sense of direction was backed up by London, who gave him a quick nod in return.

The absence of anything else, it was a better path to follow than nothing.

Elliot was about to move when a sound cut through the silence, distant but distinct, an abrupt rattling that sent an adrenaline spike through his veins. He moved with London, flashlights swinging toward the sound, racing up along the beams and supports that braced the walls, landing on a face staring back at them.

"Shit," Elliot whispered, feeling London freeze beside him.

It was a man, three stories up and tied precariously to the edge of an unstable-looking scaffolding platform, his face largely obscured by the gag covering his mouth. Despite that, and the distance that separated them, Elliot could see his features well enough to recognize him.

"Go," London whispered from beside him. Elliot tore his gaze from Benjamin to meet London's, shaking his head vehemently.

"Not a chance–"

"We don't have time, Elliot!" London hissed. "We owe him. Go!"

Elliot hesitated, eyes flickering back up to Benjamin, who was watching with barely restrained breath, obviously trying to keep himself as still as possible. He met London's gaze again, swallowing hard, forcing himself to nod.

"I'll catch up," he said, voice low. The corners of the Consulting Criminal's lips twitched into something that was almost a smile.

"See you soon," London said and quietly and quickly as he could left Elliot behind.

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There was no time for the instincts that screamed that Benjamin was a trap – of course it was a trap. 

Meant to separate him and Elliot. 

To isolate him.

But this time, London knew.

He knew where he was, he knew why, and he knew Elliot would find him again.

Soon.

He moved slowly, one cautious step after another, placing each foot soundlessly, deliberately. There was an instinct to rush as well – adrenaline, an ancient defensive reaction, and not one he could heed right now.

Behind him, the sounds of Elliot trying to rescue someone – of Elliot being Elliot – faded away. London kept his breathing steady, ignoring the part of him that screamed about the separation.

The Woman wouldn't kill him.

Not unless she really had to.

But Georges...

London understood far too well that Georges would be readily expendable.

He'd made a promise.

To Juliette.

And to Elliot.

He intended to keep them both.

The trail led him toward the heart of the old station, up flights of temporary stairs that existed only for the construction crews. The internal structure he'd navigated the last time had almost vanished – some of its layout remained, but it had been largely stripped away, leaving the shell of the old station and replacing the interior with something that would, someday, be sleek and modern.

Right now, wood and concrete dust hung in the air, particles dancing in the beam of his flashlight, giving the air a musty, almost woodsy smell. London inhaled deeply, teasing apart the scents, scouring it for hints of anything else.

She'd left a trail of perfume for him once before, at Baker Street.

But she was clever.

She was leaving him with nothing but the faint and fading path of footprints.

He kept moving, refusing to give into doubt that he was on the wrong track. She'd set this trap. She would be waiting. He was in the right place. His observational skills were as honed and accurate as ever. He was going the right way.

But arrogance was dangerous here; speed and assumptions could kill.

Georges.

Elliot.

Him.

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London kept his pace slow, deliberate, taking the time to scout his path before following it, to examine each empty room he came to without the weight of any expectation. Knowing what he was looking for might mask what was there. He needed to observe, not just to see. Assumptions could be blinding.

The prickling of hairs on the back of his neck reminded him he wasn't alone. Someone was watching – doubtless there were internal security he wasn't aware of, that he couldn't see. How much they could see in the darkness hardly mattered. The light from one flashlight was telling enough. Even if Elliot had been with him, it would have been too dangerous for one of them to move without a light.

Periodically but sporadically, London turned, scrutinizing the path behind him, watching and waiting for any sign of being followed.

The Woman wanted him to come, and it appeared she wanted him to come alone.

It was hardly surprising that the trail led up towards the penthouse that either she or Mary owned – more surprising that it stopped several floors below that. Light spilled out from an empty doorway in the near distance; London shut off his flashlight, squinting as he approached slowly, letting his vision adjust.

She had a natural advantage. No need to give her more.

He was silent, nothing more than a shadow, back to the nearest wall without touching it, without so much as the brush of fabric against a surface. The pulse in his ears made it more difficult to hear; London focused on his breathing, slow and deep, forcing his heart rate to drop and match it.

He took the time to pocket his flashlight, freeing up his hands entirely to grip the gun, using the long moment to gather as much data as he could. It was a single light, not affixed to the ceiling, hung in a corner. It would leave shadows along the edges of the room, blind spots that were already blind spots because he couldn't see them. She might be in one of those, hidden and waiting.

But she knew he was coming.

And he could see her now.

She'd put herself on display the first time, too – all of herself, using her body as a weapon in an attempt to throw him off.

There was none of that here; her appearance was all business, the white dress and heels impractical for a construction site but ideal for suggesting authority, hair swept up, posture poised and confident.

He took a deep breath held it, took another. The rage, bright and shocking, made his hands tremble. London steeled himself again, forcing calmness to smother the sharp, manic desire to act, to extract revenge for Wales.

For Himself.

For Elliot.

She would expect that. That weakness.

Elliot was his weakness.

His main pressure point.

But knowing that was half the battle.

And he knew he was one of hers.

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"Where is he?" London demanded, still swathed in the shadows. The flash of triumph at her surprise was overshadowed by his own.

She hadn't been sure he was coming. Not entirely.

"No, stay where you are," he said when she took one step toward the door. "I am armed and you do know I will fire."

"You saved my life once," she answered, voice smoother than he remembered, more luscious.

"I did," London agreed. "Human error. I shall not be repeating it."

The Woman smiled, a bright sudden grin that caught him off guard – there was no sensuousness there, no cunning or guile. Only genuine amusement.

"Where is he?" London pressed, refusing to be distracted. He kept himself in check, ignoring the clamor from his muscles to tighten his finger on the trigger.

For Wales.

For Elliot.

No, he thought.

"Did you miss me? I've certainly missed you."

"Where is he?" London repeated, dropping his voice an octave, letting it resonate.

"Elliot?" she inquired innocently; London set his jaw hard, holding himself steady. "I imagine playing the hero – he so enjoys that. He takes after you in that regard or is it the other way around these days? You have become quite the celebrity. I am a little proud and jealous."

"Georges Alexandre." The Consulting Criminal said, deliberately ignoring the Woman's words.

"All work and no play makes London a very dull boy. I suppose next are you going to tell me that if I let him go, I may make it out of here alive?"

"No," London replied.

He'd made promises.

That wasn't one of them.

He was not letting her go again.

"You won't shoot me," the Woman continued. "Oh, don't look like that, I do so hate seeing you mess up your beautiful chiseled features, handsome." she continued, taking another slow, casual step toward the door before stopping. She couldn't see him, he knew, but he felt the flash of alarm and irritation all the same. "Sentiment, I know."

She flashed another smile, this one far more calculating.

"I haven't come completely unprepared. I am on a schedule, so if we could just cut this little reunion short," she said. "There are… certain people waiting for me to make contact. If I don't…" A slight shrug, feigned unconcern for the result. "Perhaps I should say it would be very difficult then for you to make it out of here alive and then what of poor Elliot? It would absolutely destroy him and I know you wouldn't want that, so, be a good boy for me and just walk away."

"No," London said again, ignoring the taunts, focusing instead on her expression, her posture.

It was easier, now, to read beneath what she wanted him to see. The rage helped, the memory of scouring an empty darkness, each passing moment without Elliot becoming more and more suffocating.

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"I was hoping you would see. I really did not want you anywhere near this. I did not want to spoil anything between us."

He refused to take the bait, swallowing a retort.

"This is between you and Mary. There will never be anything between us to spoil."

"Interesting," she said, cocking her head. "Why call her that? You know it's not her name."

"It does the job," London replied.

"And here you are, doing yours. Like a good little soldier. Your brother would be so proud."

"Perhaps we should leave brothers out of this altogether," London suggested.

She laughed again, looking delighted.

"If only it were that easy," she replied. "And please, don't be tedious and tell me it could be. It's a pity it turned out this way, handsome, but you really should know your place. You could have avoided all of this by simply listening to me and going to France when I first asked you to. All I needed from you was the information, then you should have just walked away into the sunset. The rest…" she shrugged again, unconcerned. "It did not involve you at all but since you have seemingly put yourself right in the center as usual... I truly am sorry."

London felt the movement behind him almost before he heard it, warning instincts setting off alarm bells in the split second before he felt something plunged into his neck and then something else connect like a sledgehammer with the back of his head more than once, blinding white light exploding across his vision, dragging searing pain with it that screamed along his nerves, paralyzing everything, seizing control of his body from him and setting his veins on fire.

"I'm sorry about this as well, Holmes," another familiar voice said next to his ear as the sound of his gun clattering, uselessly, to the concrete floor, reached him from across a great distance, as his knees gave way, his body folding in on itself, "but I did promise you that you wouldn't ever see me again. Sweet dreams."

Human error.

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The soldier in Elliot helped him wrestled the panic under control, ignoring the sound of London's retreating footsteps in favor of the task in front of him.

Benjamin had obviously been left as a trap; it frustrated Elliot how well Irene knew how each of them would react. Elliot couldn't leave someone to fall to their death, not when there was something he could do to help (and certainly not after London's faked suicidal leap off the roof of Bart's), and London couldn't leave a client in danger for this kind of distraction.

It was offensive how easily Irene could manipulate them. London, at least, shouldn't be so easily led – but maybe he always had been, when he was on a case.

Irene had strung him along before. Nine and a half months to be precise.

Get a grip, Elliot, he chided himself, swinging the beam of his flashlight over the old power station's temporary inner structure, trying to find the best route.

It was going to be hard going, without any light but his flashlight, and without any way to affix that to himself and climb.

And it was going to take time, which he wasn't sure he had.

Elliot kept a tight lid on the urgency, focusing only on the immediate task at hand. He didn't call up to Benjamin – he could clearly see the beam from his flashlight headed in his direction, and he'd rather keep his presence unannounced for as long as he could.

Irene probably knew they were in the building, but on the off-chance that she didn't, Elliot didn't want to give her any extra advantage.

It took longer than he thought, breaking the hazardous journey into manageable chunks he could navigate in the dark. The construction crews hadn't just abandoned the site haphazardly, but their tidying up hadn't taken into account clearing a pathway for a doctor trying to rescue a kidnapping victim. There were materials and equipment left out – convenient for the workers when they returned, but much less so for him.

Briefly, Elliot wondered how Irene had managed to nab Benjamin – had whatever message he'd received while they'd been waiting on Alexander been faked?

Was Irene so sure of herself that she'd risk Mary's wrath?

Mary, he supposed, was likely to dish that out anyway. Irene had taken her brother, after all.

But Elliot suspected Mary would take this much more personally. She didn't know Alexandre, but Benjamin was one of hers.

He set his jaw against the useless train of thought – it didn't involve him, and it really didn't matter who Benjamin worked for. Mary or not, he didn't want Benjamin's death on his hands.

He strained his hearing as he made his slow way up the scaffolding, trying to listen past the pulse hammering in his ears. London's footsteps had long since receded into nothing, and occasionally, Elliot thought he could hear the loose plastic from their entrance shifting in the light wind, but he was probably imagining it. The breeze that had stirred through the site outside was blocked from getting in here.

More often, he could hear Benjamin himself shifting minutely, maybe trying to secure his position. He wanted to call up to her not to move, but restrained himself. He was a trained search and rescue worker – if he was moving, it wasn't without forethought and necessity.

He swung the beam up to his again, hitting his chest rather than his face so as not to blind him, giving him an idea of where he was. The quick reassurance helped him, too, letting him see that he was still relatively secure and not in immediate danger of falling.

Still, Elliot hurried as much as he was able, aware of each second sliding by that pulled London further from him and brought the Consulting Criminal that much closer to Irene.

He pulled himself up on the scaffolding behind Benjamin, setting the flashlight on the floor and aiming it at the ropes that were securing his to the framing.

"You'll be fine," Elliot said as he took a moment to gauge his position and how best to free him without having him pitch over the side.

Benjamin nodded, not daring to look round, and Elliot didn't need the flashlight to pick up on the tension coming off of him.

"I'm going to put my arm around you," Elliot said, kneeling carefully behind him, wishing like hell that he had more than his flashlight, or a headlamp that would let him see what he was doing while keeping his hands free. "I can work the knot free with my other hand – it won't be comfortable, but it will keep you from falling. Okay?"

He nodded again, mutely; Elliot considered removing the gag, but of all the bindings, that was the least inconvenient.

He braced him against his right arm, getting him to lean back as much as he was able, which wasn't much given the post against his back to which he'd been secured. That was going to make it tricky to pull her back from the edge, but Elliot set his jaw, refusing to think about it.

One step at a time.

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The knot wasn't as tight as he'd anticipated – although that wasn't particularly a relief, because it meant any real struggle on his part might have loosened it enough for him to fall free.

He eased the rope away, tightening his grip around his waist to keep him on the tiny bit of platform on which he was perched. Benjamin shuddered but kept still, breathing hard.

"Now," Elliot said, wrapping his other arm around his waist. "We're going to do this really quickly. I'm going to crouch on your left and let go with my right arm. When I say when, I want you to lean your weight left and back, right into me, as much as you can. There's a wall right behind me, so I'm safe if I fall. I'm going to pull when you lean in, and get you away from the post and onto the platform. All right?"

Benjamin nodded again, hurriedly, flinching as Elliot adjusted himself very carefully. His hands were bound, which would make the operation more difficult, but he ignored that insight. Like the gag, it would be a waste of time to undo his hands before he was safe.

He made sure he was properly braced, keeping his breathing in check, aware that Benjamin was holding himself back – desperately – from panic.

"Ready?" he asked. "On three. One– two– three!"

He leaned toward him as best he could and Elliot pulled hard, grabbing his with his right arm as well as soon as he could, hauling them back onto the platform.

They landed in a heap, both of them gasping, Benjamin struggling to sit up with bound hands.

"Here," Elliot said, easing him up. "Let me–"

He stopped abruptly when the beam from the flashlight illuminated his face enough for him to make out the features – even with the gag obscuring half of his face, he could see the differences in the outline of temples, cheeks, jaw and the shape of the eyebrows.

"Oh god," Elliot said, realization hitting him like a freight train.

The distance between Elliot and London now seemed like a gaping vacuum, expanding irrevocably, leaving the Consulting Criminal abruptly and completely at Irene's mercy.

No!

Not again.

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Elliot's muscles caught up before his brain did, aware that the man – not Benjamin – in front of him was moving to take advantage of his shock.

He punched him, wincing internally as he caught him on the side of his head.

Not enough to knock him out, but enough to stun, making him go momentarily limp.

"Sorry," Elliot said, swallowing the wave of guilt, and grabbed the rope, tying him quickly back to the post.

He struggled, protesting through the gag and trying to kick him, but Elliot steeled himself and pinned his legs long enough to let him finish.

He'd be able to work himself free from this too, but without the danger of falling this time.

He had no desire to abandon him up here – there was no guarantee that Irene would bother sending anyone to rescue him – but he needed enough time to get to London.

He snagged the flashlight and pushed himself away from his legs, chastising himself for the moment's hesitation.

"Really sorry about this,"

Elliot said again, resenting the flare of regret, and turned away, retracing his steps back to the ground floor – to London – as fast as he could without breaking his neck.

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There was a sliver of light, a white triangle sliced into the darkness, fading into nothing. Too bright to illuminate anything. It hurt to look at it, so he didn't, turning away – only to be swallowed by more light.

Pain danced along his nerves; he tried to move away but couldn't. Limbs were sluggish, unresponsive, protesting every small shift with more pain.

He tried to pull away from that too, euphoric with relief as he sank away, separating himself from the pain. It hovered above him; he tried to cut it off, a small groan escaping, unnoticed from his lips.

Other things were clamoring for his attention. Cold. Roughness against his fingertips.

The smell of concrete. Wood.

More light.

He closed his eyes. How could darkness be so bright?

He was wrong, maybe. It wasn't dark.

He was never wrong.

He was, he was sometimes, the thought hammered at him, giving the pain a path back in; he groaned again, pushing it back, whimpering almost silently when it refused to give.

He stopped fighting, and just sank.

Much easier.

The deeper he went, the less it followed, and there was no bottom here, just depth all the way down and he could sink right out of sight of it, away from the pain and all of the other information – the cold, the smells, the light, the–

Voices.

They yanked him back to the surface, slamming him back into the body he didn't want, with no regard for anything but themselves. Cut through the haze like a burning knife, refusing to stop. Circling his mind on a loop.

Circling one another.

Like a dance, and he could almost see it, but nothing was moving, two stark figures in opposition. One white and one dark. Too far to be partnered. Too close to be benign.

He would close his eyes, he decided. Go away again. Leave them to dance – or not to dance, it didn't matter, wasn't important, it had–

"Be a good boy for me..."

A gasp tore from his lungs, burning his lips, as he wrenched his eyes open again. There was a moment of clarity, like sun streaming through a break in the clouds, and he could see them perfectly, his mind affixing labels to them, giving them identities they desperately needed and he already knew.

Mary. 

The Woman.

Who had Georges Alexandre.

"… that isn't important," Mary said.

"No," London managed. "Stop. She'll have him killed."

The clouds rushed back in, pulled into a vacuum, scattering the clarity. Pain came roaring with it; London moaned, trying to push away, cold concrete against his forehead, but the pain obscured everything, cutting him away now that he didn't want to– couldn't go.

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"Tell me where he is."

She didn't know– Mary didn't know, no one knew, but someone must, someone must, and he'd made a promise to– someone else, it didn't matter, it did matter, but it wouldn't matter to the Woman– not the promise, no, but Georges' whereabouts would, but she knew, she knew, she had to know, and she had brought them here, dragged them across London to–

"The–" His tongue was thick, catching on the words, not listening to his mind. London forced the words out through uncooperative lips. "The penthouse, the penthouse."

Mary ignored him, waiting– why hadn't she listened, why wouldn't she listen, she'd left him a space to answer and he had, he knew, and Georges was so close, just up the stairs, and London lifted his head, or tried to, to look at the ceiling, baffled by the stars that spun across the darkness, that hadn't been there before he'd moved.

Mary spoke again, voice like the tide, coming and going, but without any definition. Another voice answered – female, cooler, more assured– he knew that voice, heard it in his own bedroom, in his own apartment, where another voice– another body nudged it away, taking its place, superimposing memories over one another so they merged and tangled, couldn't be pulled apart.

"This is just a game," Elliot said, thumb brushing up along the inside of London's wrist. The touch burned his nerves, amplifying the hammering in his skull. The Woman was still talking, no– back and forth now.

Like a game.


"And this is just winning."

She doesn't play games. She'd said that to him, or close to, and he'd said it to someone else once, more than once, to Elliot and to Cruz, but not to the Woman, who wouldn't know–

"No, don't," London said and they didn't listen, why didn't they listen, "She–"

Fireworks went off in his skull again, cutting through the voices and smothering them, leaving room for nothing but the roar of the explosion, the pounding ringing that crushed his eardrums, pinning him to the floor, leaving him screaming soundlessly and inhaling concrete dust. He scrabbled to hang on, fingertips clutching uselessly at the floor, but the rushing noise filled the world, pressing down on him until he couldn't hold on, pulling him away from everything and dropping him, still struggling, into unyielding darkness.

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The shot shredded the silence, stopping Elliot in his tracks. Soldier's instincts took over and he was crouched down before he knew it, flashlight off, gun at the ready, straining to hear over the residual hammering in his ears. His mind spun ahead without him, gauging the distance and the direction based on the volume.

It had come from somewhere above him, and in the direction London had gone.

"Shit!" Elliot swore under his breath, pushing himself up again, abandoning the military training. He knew he should stay hidden until he'd fully assessed the situation – but this wasn't Afghanistan, and he had no time.

He thought he could hear sirens in the distance, but even waiting for back-up would take too long.

Every passing second meant another one that London might be bleeding out somewhere, dying alone in the dark.

No, he thought. He wouldn't let that happen.

Not now.

Not ever.

He ran – or tried to – memorizing his path in short, frantic bursts, scrambling downward as fast as he could. Each moment it took to make sure he wouldn't fall and break his neck was too long; he could feel time slipping away, maybe taking London with it.

No, he told himself again, refusing that reality.

It didn't have his permission to exist.

It never would.

Elliot jumped off the last few rungs of the scaffolding to the ground, crouching to cushion his impact, and swung his flashlight around, letting it cut a clear path for him. The silence had wrapped around him again, smothering and almost impenetrable except for the sound of his own harsh breathing, of blood pounding in his ears as the ringing from the gunfire faded.

"London!" he shouted, unable to stop himself from giving up his location completely, flashlight zigzagging through the darkness, trying to pick up any hint of the Consulting Criminal in the shadows. "Holmes!"

A sudden burst of light blindsided him and something grabbed him – Elliot screwed his eyes shut and spun into the grip, throwing his weight against it. There was a distinctly male grunt as air was knocked out of lungs, but the grip didn't loosen. Elliot partially closed his eyes and swung the beam of his own flashlight into the man's face.

"It's me!" Benjamin said, letting go now to block his eyes with his arm. "Elliot, it's me!"

He set his stance, dropping the flashlight just enough for her to uncover his face.

It was him this time. Elliot let himself feel a momentary flash of relief before suppressing it, turning away.

"We need to get out," Benjamin snapped, fingers clamping around his forearm again.

"Not a bloody chance!" he snarled. "London's still in here."

"The police will–"

He wrenched his arm away, ignoring him, intent only on London. How long had it been since the gunshot? He tried to calculate quickly, to estimate blood loss, but time seemed distorted, standing still and roaring past at the same time.

"Holmes!" he shouted, partly to drown out the panic rising in his throat as he tried to pick up the Consulting Criminal's trail. "Holmes!"

"Jesus," Benjamin swore before shouldering ahead of him.

"What are you doing?" Elliot demanded. He shot him a quick glance over his shoulder.

"My job," he replied shortly. "Trail's this way. Let's go."

He set his jaw, half wondering if he was being led astray. He had no reason to tell him the truth, but he had every reason to follow him – if he wasn't lying, he was his best chance to finding London before anything else happened.

If he was lying… Elliot gritted his teeth, something turning cold in his chest.

He was going to find London. 

Alive and in one piece.

If he had to, he'd burn the building – the whole of England – to the ground to make that happen.

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There was light again. In patches. Jumping.

Maybe running.

He tried to follow but movement was heavy, like dragging through wet sand.

He shifted. The world spun. Tilted and turned, the light still playing around him, prisms in the sun. A solid band shot across the wall, closer to him. It caught against water, seeping toward him.

Straight across.

Defying gravity.

London reached toward it. It was too far, receding suddenly without moving. Creeping toward him without getting any closer. Black even in the light.

Black water on the wall.

He blinked – or dozed, so hard to tell, didn't matter – opened his eyes again.

Red.

Blood.

On the floor.

He wondered how. Wanted to ask. His tongue was thick in his mouth. Stubborn and clumsy.

"The human body contains approximately five-point-five liters of blood."

Lips twitched into a smile. Wool, soft-and-rough, warm against his fingertips. He pressed a thumb against it, along the harder ridge of bone and muscle beneath.

Yes, he told Elliot. He remembered.

"Blood loss of over forty percent of that volume is fatal without a transfusion."

He nodded. The world shifted again, light-to-dark-to-light.

"Please, god, let me live."

A gasp caught in his throat, squeezing his chest.

No, Elliot–

Cold.

Rough.

Bruising his fingertips, shocking nerves along his whole body. London reached out again, pressing down but the resistance fell away, refusing him, pinning him where he was.

A pool of blood. Black against the light. Stagnant.

No!

The blackness lit up. A blinding explosion, dragging defensive darkness with it. Even eyes closed didn't stop the agony from sudden movement that tore him from the steady light, the blood – Elliot – into chaos, an anarchy of sensations that made no sense, that wouldn't stop no matter how hard he fought, trying to impose order where there was none.

Pain flared along the back of his skull – London felt himself go limp with it, air leaving his lungs in a rush, embracing darkness as it rushed toward him, enveloping him, pulling him down.

"Merde! Monsieur 'Olmes! Can you 'ear me?"

The concrete came alive, wrapping around him. Pulling him back up – away from the darkness. Stealing warmth as it went. He tried to grasp it again, find his way back, but the path wound in on itself, leading to a hollow center where he could feel himself breathing, ragged and harsh, and the beating of drums.

A drum.

A heart.

But whose?

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He tried to make the heartbeat steady but it wasn't, the pulse matching his lungs, hard and fast, not at all what Elliot was meant to be, except for when he was, but it wasn't supposed to be like this, with every nerve screaming, making him scream from an unresponsive larynx, from numb lips, trapping the agony inside of him where it couldn't get out, where it wouldn't let him go–

"Come on, come on," The non-Elliot said, hand on London's face, fingertips like brands on his skin, leaving cooling, lonely patches when they moved. "Stay awake. We need to go."

Stay and go made no sense, he wanted to stay, he didn't want to go, they didn't need to go, they never needed to go– he wanted to tell Elliot but there was no way – they could just stay here and sink down from the pain and everything would make sense again, it would, if Elliot would just let it.

The world was yanked out from underneath him, falling away and upward at the same time, giving him nowhere to stand, nothing to stand on except the pain that roared through him, still trapped inside, bouncing off the confines of his skin and reverberating, feeding on itself, tearing him to shreds until there was nothing else left, nothing but the hammering in his head, in his ears–

"No, don't", he said and they didn't listen, why didn't they listen, "She doesn't–"

Dark and light, a monochromatic impasse, and neither of them would listen and then– then there was the explosion, a riot of sound and color and the light vanished, collapsed on itself, color blossoming from nothing, spilling outward–

A river of blood. On the floor.

It superimposed itself next to him, the image swelling before fading away, leaving a smeared hand print, painted in blood next to him – behind him now, falling away.

"Good, good," The voice was saying. "Come on."

It was an odd harmonic, the imbalance as out of sync as the rest of them, jumbled up sensations, all at once unfamiliar and familiar – height, smell, sound, sight. A shoulder dug under one of his arms, all in the wrong place for Elliot's height, light haired merged into dark then back again, features shifting and morphing, as if Elliot were wearing a mask, switching the channel between himself and someone else.

There was blood on Elliot's face. A smear like the one left behind them. And on his hand.

Whose was it?

A river of blood, on the floor.

Eye-level with him as it crept outward, trying to get away from the body that had contained it, broken free at last.

Strange colored eyes meeting his in the darkness, through the light that spilled out across both of them, but the gaze was blank, not returned, recognition stamped out in a moment of furious sound.

His lungs tightened in a vice– air, he needed air now, his body obeyed him – or itself – sucking in oxygen, tasting dust as it did, trying to shut that out while still taking in what it needed, sending a spasm through him.

"Elliot–"

"Almost there," That same not-Elliot voice, dark eyes meeting his again but there was light in them, recognition, not as deep as Elliot's, like an awareness on the surface, never seeing everything Elliot would see, because this wasn't Elliot–

"Come on," The voice said, nodding, encouraging. "Down we go, one step at a time?"

He wanted to nod but the tilt of his head set off the fireworks again, everything else fading around him, the solid surface beneath his feet turning to jelly, pitching him in every direction.

"No, no, no. Awake. Stay with me."

He sucked in another deep breath, desperate to obey– this is what Elliot would have wanted, and he wanted Elliot to be pleased– but there was something else there, something that caught his lungs again, making them burn.

It had a name, his brain fumbled for it, fighting itself – why was it always fighting, when had this started, he didn't remember this being so hard, it didn't used to be so hard – but his lips and tongue knew it without prompting, some age-old instinct bypassing everything else.

Smoke.

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Benjamin stopped so abruptly that Elliot collided into him, grunting as he tried to keep his footing, grabbing him instinctively to keep him upright.

"What–" he demanded but he held up a hand, the movement just visible in the light from his flashlight. Military instinct took over, freezing him, forcing him to wait.

"Inhale," Benjamin ordered. "Deeply."

Elliot did, then did it again, trying to convince himself he was wrong. But the acrid scent caught him again, sending warning sirens screaming in his brain, dropping a cold weight into his chest that fled down every vein.

"Smoke," he said.

"Fire," Benjamin replied. "Come on, we need to get–"

"Not without London."

"Elliot–"

He grabbed his arm, not caring this time about the rough treatment, shining the beam of his light square in his eyes.

"I don't care if you go," he snarled. "I'm not leaving without him."

He pushed past him, uncaring, shouting London's name and running now, the beam of light cutting across London's faint footprints, the ones that only led into the building and upward. He tried to see their images reversed, overlaying the original ones, but the trail wouldn't lie to him.

London had gone in this way, but hadn't come back out.

"London!" he shouted, pounding toward a set of stairs, trying to convince himself that the taste of smoke on the air wasn't getting stronger, that his flashlight wasn't picking up anything more than dust kicked up by his footsteps. "London!"

Benjamin was beside him again suddenly; Elliot braced himself instinctively against being restrained, but he kept pace with him, echoing his shouts.

"Shit," he heard him mutter, coming to an abrupt stop. Elliot went another two steps, forcing himself to slow down enough to see what had caught his attention. It should have been an outline of a person – London coming toward them through the shadows – but it was brighter than that, flickering as it inched toward them.

Benjamin met his gaze in the light from their flashlights, the right side of his face turned faintly orange by the distant but approaching fire.

"Come on," he said roughly, taking the stairs two at a time. Elliot pushed himself back into motion, outpacing her easily, shouting London's name, ignoring the burn in his lungs from the exertion and the encroaching smoke.

"London!"

He had to hear it, Elliot himself, shouting his partner's name again – and again and again, forcing himself to be louder each time, until Benjamin caught his arm, fingers digging in, silencing him with a hiss.

He could feel the heat from the fire now, hear the cracking and splitting of wood as it lapped against the temporary structures – walls and platforms and stairways that were never meant to stay in place anyway.

"'Ello!" he heard, a male voice floating down from above, not London but with a familiar quality Elliot couldn't place. He gave up trying, pushing himself onward. "Here! We're up 'ere!"

The stairs seemed to stretch above them, the distance elongating rather than shrinking as they raced toward the voice, trying to outrun the fire.

His flashlight caught something suddenly, two figures almost blended into one, neither of them making sense until they resolved themselves into London, limp, bloodied and supported by Georges Alexandre.

"What–" Elliot started, confusion over Alexandre's sudden appearance stunning him into silence.

Doctor's instincts kicked in, frustrated with the rest of him, taking note of the blood on Alexandre's face and hands, along London's neck, nose, beneath his ears, his sticky and matted hair, the labored shallowness of the Consulting Criminal's breathing and the sickly pallor of his skin.

London's gaze met Elliot's, glassy and unfocused, but there was a glint of recognition in there, growing stronger when London reached for him, the movement so clumsy it almost stopped Elliot from reaching back. His muscles moved without input from his brain, closing the distance to grasp London's hand. The Consulting Criminal leaned toward him, more of a slump than a deliberate motion; Elliot caught him, steadying him.

London gave a shuddering sigh, and threw up on Elliot.

"Oh I should have seen that coming." Elliot replied, forcing himself not to step back.

"I think he 'it 'is 'ead," Alexandre said, almost belatedly. The concussion was obvious, but not the most pressing of their worries now. Elliot nodded, trying to take shallow breaths against the smell while keeping London upright.

"We need to go," Benjamin said, and the snapping of the rapidly approaching fire hit Elliot's ears again; if they didn't move, their exit would be cut off when the stairs burned. "You two, under one arm each. Elliot, support his head."

Elliot did as ordered, his hand coming away sticky with blood when they'd lowered London enough for Benjamin to grab his legs, suspending the Consulting Criminal between the three of them. Back and side of the head, hard enough blows to open a wound – London had probably been hit rather than accidentally hit himself.

Panic flared; Elliot suppressed it mercilessly, the effort making him snarl. He caught Alexandre's glance but ignored it – no time for explanations, not from him, not from their abruptly returned missing man.

They were all breathing smoke now, trying to keep their breathing shallow enough not to be overwhelmed by it, hampered by London's dead weight and the difficulty of managing flashlights while carrying a half-conscious person.

"Let's go," Benjamin said. "We're not far now."

It was a lie but a necessary one; Elliot managed to steal a glance at London's face as he adjusted his hold on his partner somewhat. He could see the struggle there – maybe because he was a doctor, maybe because he knew London so well. It didn't look like much from the outside, but the Consulting Criminal was still fighting with everything he had left to stay awake.

Elliot took that as a good sign.

He wouldn't let it be anything else.

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The air was thicker now, the smoke closing in on them ahead of the flames. Elliot's eyes stung with it, tearing up in a futile defense. He blinked rapidly, feeling the tears track down his cheeks, but trying to clear his vision didn't help much. The flashlights were rapidly becoming useless, unable to cut through the haze.

Elliot's lungs burned; he needed to breathe deeply against London's weight slung between the three of them, but doing that would make him succumb faster to the smoke. He gritted his teeth against coughing, against the rattle in his lungs.

They didn't have time for that now.

They weren't going to make it out.

They had to make it out.

Elliot lurched to the left when Alexandre weakened suddenly, doubling over to cough, still holding London, but barely. Elliot and Benjamin managed to stabilize London, to keep from dropping him, but it was costing them precious seconds, continuing their exposure to the smoke.

"We're almost there," Benjamin said, and Elliot wondered if he really knew – and how – or if he was saying it to keep them going. "Elliot, there are police outside by now. I'm going to get someone and bring them back to help. The two of you need to keep going. Understand?"

Elliot nodded grimly at him – it was probably the best choice out of all the poor choices they had at the moment.

Benjamin's gaze flickered to Alexandre, just visible in the weakened beam of Elliot's flashlight.

"Alexandre, can you do this?" Elliot asked.

Alexandre nodded, readjusting his grip; the doctor in Elliot railed against ignoring the obvious struggle.

He had no time to deal with that.

"Yes," Alexandre said. "I'm sorry."

"Let's go," Elliot replied. He gave Benjamin a final glance and a curt nod; he didn't hesitate before vanishing into the smoke, moving quickly without the burden of London's limp weight.

Elliot swallowed against the apprehension that he might not come back at all – he'd saved their lives once before and had come with him to find London despite having no obligation to do so.

He was a search and rescue worker, he told himself. That meant something.

It was harder going with just the two of them, and impossible not to breathe deeply now, fighting for oxygen that was being devoured by the fire. They were dragging London, heedless of his feet trailing and bumping against the ground. If it injured him but got him out, it would be worth it.

Choosing between London's complaints and sulks at being laid up and his life was no choice at all.

"Here we go," Elliot said, coming to the top of another set of stairs. Some hint of intuition told him it was the last one – he hoped like hell that wasn't a dark premonition. The heat from the fire was making him sweat, which made it harder to keep hold of London, and he could hear the flames all too clearly, cracking and engulfing the wooden structures behind him.

"Down!" Elliot shouted, dropping into an awkward crouch, dragging London and Alexandre with him as he went, fighting to keep them steady when Alexandre nearly lost his balance. He curled himself over London's upper body, foreheads almost touching, wincing at the crash behind them and the sudden crackle and spike in the heat as the fire fed off new oxygen.

Elliot felt suspended there, the temporary floor shuddering under his feet, a chaotic contrast to the faint brush of London's breath on his skin.

"Turn him around!" Elliot said. Alexandre gave him a befuddled look that Elliot tried not to resent – they didn't have time for confusion but he also didn't have time to be irritated at a man who had never been trained to do this and who had just been abducted.

It wasn't the best position by any stretch of the imagination; having London facing them, arms slung over their shoulders so that Elliot and Alexandre were nearly walking sideways made the Consulting Criminal harder to hold onto – but it made it easier to move, especially down the stairs, keeping them from tripping on his feet.

London, with whatever awareness he still clung to, curled his hand weakly into the fabric of Elliot's shirt, hanging on as best he could.

"Good, okay" Elliot murmured, half to himself, half to the Consulting Criminal, doubting London could even register anything now. "Let's go."

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They raced down the stairs as quickly as they could, flashlights nearly useless now, pressed as they were against London's body. The smoke obscured what weak light they were giving, but Elliot couldn't spare the time to drop it, focusing on the fire chasing them, on staying conscious long enough to get out.

They hit the ground floor without being able to see it, both of them collapsing as muscles tried to keep carrying them down stairs that weren't there. Elliot grunted, just managing to keep London from hitting the floor as Alexandre lost his hold on the Consulting Criminal completely.

He tried to haul himself back up, feeling a stab of panic at the sound of coughing beside him. His own lungs protested; Elliot tried to fight them and failed, doubling over, trying to keep London in his grip as his lungs seized.

'Come on!' he shouted at himself.

Gritting his teeth hard, he swallowed against the coughing and forced himself back up.

"Get up," he ordered, not caring how harsh the order was – he couldn't drag London and Alexandre out and knew the choice he'd make if forced to.

Alexandre struggled to his feet, swaying, and there was suddenly someone in front of him, holding him steady. Elliot blinked, convinced for a moment he was hallucinating, but the figure resolved itself into Benjamin, followed by Cruz and Dimmock materializing from the smoke.

"Get him," Benjamin said to the Inspector and Sargent, who swooped in without a word, taking London's weight from Elliot. He almost clung to the Consulting Criminal, a panicked, instinctive reaction more than anything, but forced himself to let go.

A firm hand grabbed his, and Benjamin helped pull him up, pushing Alexandre on in front of him. Elliot steeled himself, grabbing London's legs – he could still do this, and neither man complained at the sudden redistribution of the Consulting Criminal's weight.

"This way," Benjamin said, cutting a path through the smoke from them, a hand around Elliot's wrist and the other around Alexandre's to keep them in a chain, his pace urging them onward.

They broke into the night air as suddenly as Elliot and Alexandre had come to the base of the stairs, the shock of fresh air making Elliot stumble. Military and medical instinct made him let go of London as he lost his balance, vaguely aware of the grunt behind him as Cruz and Dimmock took all of London's weight.

"Keep moving," Benjamin said, grasping him hard to keep him standing. Elliot managed a nod, coughing but stumbling forward into the sudden and unexpected grasp of a officer who wrapped an arm around him, keeping him upright.

The sound of sirens and yelling voices hit him as if someone had un-muted the universe, hammering his eardrums. Elliot tried to see around the smoke-sting in his eyes, the blurred images around him resolving slowly. Elliot tried to tip his head back to see and regretted it immediately when his vision blurred and nearly faded to nothing.

There was another set of hands on him suddenly and something strapped around his head – Elliot tried to pull away, sucking in a deep breath of oxygen as he did, the sensation leaving him momentarily lightheaded. He stopped, nodding to the paramedic and the officer to indicate that he was all right, and leaned forward slightly, breathing in a few more times. The relief was short lived; the oxygen brought back some clarity of mind, and Elliot pulled the mask off, turning back to London.

"He needs a hospital," he said to Cruz and Dimmock, who were still supporting London, waiting for a rapidly approaching team of paramedics carrying a stretcher.

"That's where he's going," Cruz replied. "You too. You've inhaled a lot of smoke."

"Not enough to do any damage," Elliot said, closing the short distance between them to take Dimmock's place supporting the nearly unconscious Consulting Criminal. "Get me some gauze!" he snapped, snagging the handful that was thrust at him by the paramedic and pressing it against the side and back of his partner's head.

London moaned, tipping his head slightly as if trying to get away; Elliot held him firm, keeping a steady pressure on the wounds, taking deep, slow breaths and blinking away the small, silver spots that danced around the edges of his vision.

"Stay still," he said, half for the Consulting Criminal and half for himself.

London's eyelashes fluttered, lips moving slightly.

"Don't quit now," Elliot said. "Stay awake, just a little while longer. You can do it."

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Fingers tightened again where London's hand rested limply on Elliot's shoulder. It was almost nothing, but Elliot took it as a good sign, shifting a bit so the paramedic who had helped him could hold the oxygen mask over the Consulting Criminal's face.

Elliot glanced up when the paramedics with the stretcher crouched down next to him, one of them trading places with Cruz. Another pair of paramedics were treating Alexandre, under the watchful eye of Dimmock who looked as though he was keeping a lid on a lot of questions. Elliot didn't blame him, but they didn't have time for any explanations right now.

His eyes skittered over the group around him, police officers and paramedics and firefighters – and the notable absence of a search and rescue worker.

"Shit," he sighed, catching Cruz's attention. The Inspector followed Elliot's gaze, noting the same thing, and pushed himself up. Elliot swallowed on a comment that Cruz shouldn't bother trying to go after him, and refocused, helping the paramedics shift London onto a stretcher.

"You'll have to let us–"

"He's going with him," Cruz snapped. "Elliot, I'll be right behind you. We'll take care of the rest."

Elliot nodded, pushing himself to his feet, gripping one of London's hands tightly to let the Consulting Criminal know he was there and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, to help him keep himself steady. The world spun gently before righting itself, still a panic of sirens and smoke, of yammering voices and the roaring fire.

He followed the path the paramedics cut for them, grateful to hand that responsibility off to someone else, and focused on talking to London, on keeping the Consulting Criminal as conscious as he could be while trying not to think about what had happened.

Both Mary and Irene had been in there – Elliot was sure of that – and someone had repeatedly hit London enough to incapacitate him.

One of them?

Or someone who worked for them?

He nearly snarled to himself – it didn't matter now.

Whoever had done this would pay. But not with London's life.

One of the paramedics helped haul Elliot up into the ambulance, the sudden change in height making Elliot lightheaded again. He set his jaw against it, crouching down at the foot of the stretcher where he could reach up to hold London's hand, however uncomfortable that was, to let the paramedics work. One of them thumped twice on the front of the ambulance and Elliot braced himself as the vehicle rumbled to life, catching a nauseating whiff of the vomit he was still wearing.

He pushed that down too, squeezing London's hand.

"Stay with me, Holmes. Stay awake. You can do it. Just stay awake a little while longer."

He might have been imagining the faint pressure of fingers around his but decided to believe in it anyway – London was fighting, Elliot could see that, and the Consulting Criminal was going to win.

Elliot wouldn't let him get away with anything else.

He squeezed his partner's hand again, rubbing the inside of London's wrist with his thumb.

"Good," he said, forcing the thoughts down, refusing to let them take hold. "You're doing great. I'm proud of you. Not much longer now. We're almost there."

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Alexander was already there when they arrived, looking unreasonably cool and put together despite the situation.

Of course he is, Elliot thought, annoyed at Alexander's presence but more so that he couldn't really fault it – and it was useful.

"Does he have any metal in his body I don't know about?" Elliot demanded, feeling a stab of bitter triumph when Alexander looked nonplussed.

"What?"

"Does he have any metal in his body?" Elliot repeated. "Any implants you might have stuck in him while he was away?"

"Elliot, I assure you–"

"Yes or no, Alexander!"

"No," Alexander replied, expression entirely put out. Elliot ignored that, probably irritating the older Holmes even more, turning to meet the triage doctor and two nurses who had joined them hurriedly.

It was a struggle to let the paramedics do their job and report London's vitals; the details swum past Elliot as he moved through the A&E – thirty year old male, struck on the back and side of the head repeatedly, pupils responsive, BP ninety over sixty, pulse… – a bare bones sketch that didn't come close to fleshing out the reality that was London.

"No medical allergies and no current medications," Elliot supplied, "but he used to be a cocaine addict."

The doctor nodded, as if not surprised by the statement, and didn't ask who he was. Elliot suspected Alexander's hand in that but didn't bother feeling anything about it. He could be grateful later; right now wasn't the time.

"You'll need to get out of that if you want to be in here," the doctor said, nodding at Elliot. He glanced down, scowling at his sick-covered shirt, and followed one of the nurses willingly when she led him away. Protesting would only delay everything, and he had no intention of leaving London alone longer than necessary.

She gave him a hospital gown and a bio hazard bag for his shirt; Elliot ducked into a toilet, half wishing he'd been wearing a light jacket or jumper, but the temperatures hadn't necessitated that. He stuffed the shirt in the bag, happy to see the back of it, and cleaned up his trousers as best he could. London had, luckily enough – if it could be called luckily – thrown up mostly on Elliot's shirt.

He donned the gown, annoyed at the stupidity of it, but didn't let that slow him down. The bag containing the shirt was returned to the nurse; Elliot left her to dispose of it, intent on getting back to London.

They'd propped him up by the time Elliot got back, one of the paramedics and the other nurse bracing him as the doctor cleaned the wounds, a look of intense concentration on her face.

"Needs stitches," she said curtly when Elliot stepped back into the scant privacy afforded by the curtain.

Elliot felt his stomach sink even though the pronouncement wasn't a surprise. London had been bleeding far too much for the doctor in Elliot to expect anything else, but the rest of him rebelled at the idea.

"Shave as little of his hair as possible," he said.

The doctor looked up, giving him a grim smile, but there was an unexpected light in her eyes.

Watching everything made him feel dislocated, like an out-of-body experience or unrelenting déjà vu. Elliot wrestled the urge to take charge of London's care himself as the Consulting Criminal – fully unconscious now – was hooked to an IV line and less obstructive oxygen tubes, as the bleeding was staunched and the wounds stitched shut.

He could have done it himself, even the careful scrape of a blade around the injury – he'd done it enough times before, patching London up after some reckless and exhilarating adventure.

But he couldn't. Not this time. It wasn't his hospital but that wasn't all of it – the largest of the wounds, the gash on the back of London's scalp made him want to vomit, filling him with a rage so bright it was hard to see around it, or to think. It had nowhere to go because he had no idea who to blame.

Mary or Irene.

It didn't matter.

They'd both strung London along, using Alexandre as bait, using London as their go-between.

They'd both lured the Consulting Criminal there.

Both of them would pay.

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Elliot swallowed hard, reasserting some control, balling his hands into fists.

That didn't help, only made him remember London in Alexander's office earlier that day – yesterday now – thumbs digging into Elliot's tense palms. His left hand shook, the intermittent tremor that had kept him from re-qualifying as a surgeon brought on by the fury and the smoke he'd inhaled.

It didn't go unnoticed by the A&E doctor either. She brooked no argument, giving him the choice of staying and using the oxygen mask or being restrained by security and using the oxygen mask.

Elliot stayed, and tried not to resent her skills being directed at him.

It did help, even if he wasn't willing to admit it out loud, and by the time London was stitched, bandaged, and ready to be whisked away for tests, she was willing to let Elliot go with him, unencumbered by any medical equipment.

It probably wasn't the best option, he knew, but they'd need an entire army to drag him away from London.

He lingered in the room as long as he could, watching hawklishly as the orderlies unhooked London from the oxygen and the IV drip and transferred him to the appropriate bed. One of the nurses had given him a sedative to keep him from waking up and panicking, and it unnerved Elliot to see how limp and unresponsive London was.

It reminded him too much of the body on the pavement outside of Bart's, hollow and empty.

It's not the same, he told himself firmly, squeezing London's ankle as the orderlies settled him, angry at the faint tremor that persisted in his left hand.

Elliot resisted checking for a pulse; he could see London breathing, the Consulting Criminal's chest rising and falling slowly as he slept, sedated, through the preparations.

Elliot waited until the orderlies had left, until the tech in the booth knocked on the glass, gesturing for Elliot to join him.

"I'm not going far," Elliot whispered, squeezing London's hand again. "I'll be right here."

Elliot scrutinized the images as they appeared before him, looking in vain for anything he could identify, but even the tech's assurance that he wasn't seeing anything out of the ordinary didn't help. Elliot gave up, exhaustion sweeping in like he'd given it permission to do so, and for a moment he felt dizzy and dislocated.

He swallowed that hard, forcing it aside; he certainly didn't have time to think about anything else right now. The moment the scan was complete, he was back in the room, talking quietly to London, who hadn't so much as stirred.

The Consulting Criminal had changed though – the black eyes that had been forming when they'd brought him in had darkened and expanded, smudging dark circles on his pale face. Combined with the thick helmet of bandages wrapped around his head, it made him look garish, like he'd been made up for some cheap horror film.

"You were brilliant. As usual," Elliot said, squeezing London's unresponsive hand, letting go – reluctantly – when the orderlies came back in with the gurney to transfer him to the ICU.

The ICU nurse gave Elliot some paperwork to sign – mostly to keep him busy, Elliot suspected, while the staff got London settled. That didn't take long, but every second seemed to stretch itself out, making him edgy and impatient.

The nurse finally let him in, doing a quick scan of London's vitals and making a few notes before leaving them in the ICU's stifling silence.

Elliot sagged, fatigue dropping onto him like a collapsing cliff. He sank into the chair next to London's bed, fumbling for the Consulting Criminal's hand, keeping himself anchored to London as much as it kept London anchored to him.

Given the opportunity, everything struck at once – exhaustion, thirst, hunger, confusion, isolation. He leaned forwards, dropping his head between his knees, inhaling long, slow breaths through his nose until the worst of the dizziness cleared.

But he was a doctor, and he knew it wouldn't go away without food and water.

Knowing that didn't change a damn thing.

He wasn't going to leave London like this, unconscious and injured.

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The twitch of the curtain made him look up – he thought he could ask the nurse at least for a cup of water – but her form resolved itself, confusingly, into Cruz, who was carrying a bundle of cloth in one arm and giving him a concerned once over.

It was clothing he was carrying, he realized belatedly. And he was still in the gown the hospital had given him.

"How is he?"

"Stable," Elliot said. "We won't know much more until we get the results back but… I don't know, Greg. I don't know."

He nodded, squeezing his arm.

"And you?"

"Yeah, good, fine," Elliot replied, the words delivered automatically, with no real truth behind them.

"I'm not London, so please don't lie to me. You're absolutely shattered. You need to eat."

"I can't–"

"Alexander's outside demanding to see his brother. So London won't be alone. But first Alexander and I need to talk to you."

"Go get changed first," Greg said, giving his arm another gentle squeeze. "I'll wait here."

Elliot ducked into the loo, shedding the hospital gown and his somewhat dirty trousers for the fresh clothing Cruz had brought. He stuffed the rest of it in uncaring in the bin and swapped places with Cruz while they went and met Alexander.

He wasn't leaving London alone for a single second, not with Mary and Irene still out there.

Alexander was in the tiny waiting room just outside of the ICU; Elliot repressed a sense of dread at the way the heavy door fell shut with a decisive click, fumbling slightly when a takeaway bag was deposited into his hands.

"Eat this first," Cruz said.

The sandwich was a like gift from heaven; Elliot wished Cruz could have smuggled in a beer – or five – but made do with the water instead. He ate as slowly as he could make himself, listening to Cruz hush Alexander sharply every time the older Holmes started to ask about his brother's condition.

"He's stable," Elliot repeated what he already told Cruz. "We'll know more when we get the results of his tests, and when he wakes up."

"And when will that be?" Alexander asked dryly.

"When he wakes up," Elliot replied shortly, rubbing his hands together and looking at Cruz. "How's Alexandre?"

"Shaken up, as you can imagine. But physically he was unharmed."

"How the hell did he find London?" Elliot demanded. "Where the bloody hell did he come from?"

"That's all still a bit unclear," Cruz said, holding up his hands when Elliot started to interject. "But he was able to tell us that it was a woman who rescued him – he couldn't see her very well, it being dark, but she had a flashlight and it was enough for him to see she had short dark blond or light brown hair. And she spoke to him in French."

"Mary," Elliot sighed, sitting back in his chair.

"Seems like a good bet," Cruz replied. "She cut him free, gave him a flashlight, told him how to get out and where to find London."

She was there, Elliot realized – he'd known but this confirmed it.

She might well be the reason London was lying in the ICU, unconscious, battered, and bandaged.

Elliot balled his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

"We also found a body – a woman's body, impeccably dressed, hair obviously carefully styled at one point, although most of it had shaken free, matted with dark blood. She was rigged with forensic markers and artificial lights, and laid out almost like she'd been staged: on her back, face turned towards the sky, wearing a slightly surprised expression. With a bullet hole right in the center of her forehead."

"Jesus Christ," Elliot said. "Is it her? Really?"

"As far as well can tell," Alexander replied.

"As far as– as far as you can tell? She bloody faked you out last time– the last two times! You need to do better than 'as far as we can tell'!"

"We're working on it," Alexander replied.

"Do better than that!" Elliot snarled, pushing himself to standing, leaning over Alexander, who pulled back slightly in surprise and causing Cruz to quickly step in between them. "Because the real her might still be out there!"

"We're aware–"

"You're always bloody aware! So do something about it this time!"

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