"Elliot," Cruz warned, and Elliot took a deep breath, calming himself down with substantial effort.

He wasn't about to be kicked out of the hospital because of Alexander's pigheadedness.

"She was shot point-blank range in the head. She wasn't shot there – no brain matter, not enough blood – so someone had to have shot her elsewhere and then either that person or someone else moved her."

"You think Mary–"

"Or London," Alexander said, a little too quickly for Elliot's liking.

Elliot turned on him with a snarl, barely managing to wrestle it down when Cruz intervened again.

"He had more than enough time and he also had his gun on him, which by the way I thought had been confiscated at my request, but luckily for everyone, it appears it hadn't been fired. We're also testing the clothes he came here in for residue just in case, but no, we don't think it was him."

"Mary," Elliot said.

"Or one of her people, yes. Which is why we really need to talk to London. It's likely he was there, or close by."

"And you bloody well know it's possible he won't remember a damn thing when he wakes up," Elliot said. "Someone hit him repeatedly and hard enough to ensure that."

"Which is why we'll do whatever we can to help him," Cruz said.

"However in the meantime, I'd like to go and do what I came here to do and that is see him," Alexander cut in coolly. "Myself and our father would like some reassurance that his youngest child is still alive and breathing."

"You have five minutes," Elliot said. "Then you're done. I'll stay with him tonight and in the meantime you'll sort this shit out and find out if that's really Irene so I bloody well have something to tell your brother when he wakes up. Understood?"

Elliot didn't even wait for the older Holmes' response before he walked back to London's room and he knew that he didn't have to turn around to know that Alexander was burning a hole through him after once again being told by Elliot how to deal with his own brother.

The shift of fingertips against his palm jolted Elliot awake, and doctor's instincts took over, getting him up and on his feet before he was fully conscious.

He tightened his grip comfortingly around London's, feeling the twitch as the Consulting Criminal mustered a weak response, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked himself awake. London was still ghostly pale – save for the dark circles stamped around his eyes – and his gaze was glassy and unfocused.

None of that was surprising, so Elliot forced a smile, squeezing London's hand again.

"Welcome back."

London's lips moved soundlessly, and a weak cough made him wince. Elliot plucked a cup of ice cubes from the tray beside the bed, cradling the Consulting Criminal's newly shaved (against his wishes) head very carefully to feed him a few small chips.

"Easy, easy," Elliot murmured when London scowled, reaching up clumsily to tug at the oxygen tube resting under his nose. "Hey! No! You need that." He moved London's hand away gently, feeling a stab of relief when the Consulting Criminal tried briefly – and ineffectually – to resist.

That stubborn streak was, at least, familiar.

"You were hit on the head a few times but you'll be fine," he said, inwardly ignoring the fact that this was the fourth concussion the Consulting Criminal had had since coming back to London – the first courtesy of Cruz, the second during a sticky situation on a case, Donovan had rescued him from that, but not in time to prevent any damage being done and the third was courtesy of one of Alexander's 'Men in Black' who mysteriously found themselves floating in the Thames a few hours later.

And the effects were cumulative.

London was used to treating his body like a punching bag, but even he couldn't stop reality from catching up with it.

The curtain twitched aside, letting Elliot shelve those thoughts, to admit a doctor Elliot hadn't met yet, who appraised London sharply and introduced herself as his neurologist.

"Good to see you awake, Mister Holmes," she said, her tone lighter than her gaze. "I'm just going to ask you a few questions."

She ran him through the basics – his name, date of birth, the current year – and Elliot tried not to let it bother him how readily London answered and how befuddled he seemed, not by the questions themselves but by why they were being asked.

The obstinacy Elliot had just seen was gone, and there was no put upon impatience in London's answers, no eye rolling or protests that his time was being wasted.

That wasn't unexpected, he told himself.

And it was a very good sign that London was getting everything right.

"His results showed some bruising but that's not unexpected with a concussion. Overall, it looks good," she said, and the wave of relief was almost strong enough to knock Elliot off his feet. "But I'm ordering one last test just to be on the safe side. We'll do one now, and follow up once things have calmed down a bit, to make sure everything is working properly."

Elliot nodded, trying to stamp down the anxiety; London was awake and coherent, he told himself.

Given the situation, that counted for a lot.

"The nurse will bring in some forms for you to sign, Elliot," she said, giving him a comforting smile. "This really is precautionary. I'm satisfied with the results for the time being."

Alexander had probably had a hand in this, but Elliot felt hard-pressed to resent it. He nodded silently, and she slipped out, leaving him alone with London in the overbearing silence of the ICU ward.

A nurse came in a moment later with more paperwork, which Elliot signed perfunctorily, skimming the information just carefully enough to reassure himself that he was only agreeing to this, and that Alexander hadn't tried to slip in any other tests or treatments.

Elliot wouldn't put it past Alexander to use the opportunity to do something London had always resisted – or to test for recent drug use.

Fingers tugged lightly at his shirt and Elliot glanced down, startled to see London's anxious gaze darting back and forth between him and the privacy curtain. Elliot took his partner's hand, squeezing gently but warmly, putting on his best reassuring doctor's expression, grateful that London wasn't able to see right through it.

"It's all right," he said.

London nodded once, grey eyes flickering back to the curtain before glancing pleadingly back at Elliot.

London nodded, looking entirely unconvinced, uncertainty etched around his bruised eyes and Elliot ran a thumb along the ridge of London's knuckles, a touch he'd used more than once to calm the Consulting Criminal's nightmares. It seemed to help; some of the tension ebbed from London's features, but there was still an undercurrent of trepidation there. "I promise. Better safe than sorry."

"They shaved my head." The Consulting Criminal weakly pointed out.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry but I told them not to do it. But at least you got that haircut you were putting off," Elliot tried to joke but felt bad for doing so.

The Consulting Criminal's eyelids dropped shut for a moment before he forced them open again, fighting a losing battle as he drifted off.

'There you are' Elliot thought, wondering if he was only trying to convince himself. London struggled for a moment longer before succumbing, the tension leaking from his features and his grip relaxing in Elliot's hand.

Elliot tightened his own grip in response, hoping for some small reaction and chastising himself when he didn't get it.

Waking London up now served no purpose; rest was the best thing for him right now.

Given how difficult it normally was to convince London of that, Elliot told himself to take what he could get.

It didn't help much, but at least it partway convinced him that he had a plan.

The early hours of the morning passed in a blur. Elliot went with London for the final test, feeling extraneous and useless as the hospital staff got on with their jobs, moving London from the ICU and back, detaching and reattaching IV lines and monitors.

It was suffocating having no other role than waiting; there was so much that the nurses and orderlies were doing that he could have done instead, but it would only get in their way and get him escorted out by security.

He wasn't leaving London alone, not for a single second.

The ICU was as quiet as it had been when they'd left; Elliot dropped back into his chair, ignoring the aches and protests from stiff muscles that longed for a comfortable bed.

'Going soft', he told himself with a scowl.

He'd put up with much worse in Afghanistan.

He put up with much worse for London. 

Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Elliot dozed a bit, London's hand in his, aware of the faint beeping that kept track of London's heart rate, of the sound of rubber soles squeaking gently on hard floors as the nurses went about their business. Once or twice, he woke up when one of them checked on London, taking note of the Consulting Criminal's vitals and giving Elliot a warm smile. He thought he mustered a smile in response, but was too tired to care.

He drifted off again, slipping into a deeper sleep this time, where the only sensation he was really aware of was London's cool fingers in his. Some distant, medical part of him knew it wasn't enough but there was no other choice – or none that he would ever make.

Their bed would still be there when they got home. He could wait.

"Elliot."

His name startled him awake, his brain trying to resolve the sound into London's voice instead of the one he thought he'd heard – but when he blinked his eyes open, stifling a groan as he shifted in the now-uncomfortable chair, he saw Cruz watching him, expression etched with concern.

"Hi," he managed, scrubbing his eyes before casting a critical gaze over London; the Consulting Criminal was still asleep or unconscious, breathing slowly, his pulse not as strong as Elliot would have liked to have seen, but nowhere near critical.

"Sorry to wake you," Cruz whispered, slipping fully into the tiny curtained space.

"No, it's okay."

Elliot scrubbed his face again, trying vainly to chase away some of the fatigue that clung to the edges of his brain.

"Have you found Benjamin?" he asked. 

"No. Not for lack of trying."

Elliot sighed and nodded; he hadn't really imagined the police would be able to track Benjamin down. He'd proven adept at vanishing and reappearing whenever he wanted to – Elliot suspected he could vanish and simply choose not to surface again.

And with Mary's resources, he'd have no problems never being seen again.

"What then?" he asked, somewhat belatedly, berating himself for being so slow.

"We still need to talk to you," Cruz pointed out. "And London's father still needs to see him."

"No. I told Alexander– I don't want that asshole anywhere near him right now."

"You can't keep him hidden away, Elliot. His father is an asshole but he's an asshole with a child in the hospital."

"Fine," Elliot conceded. "All right."

Elliot resigned himself to allowing Carlton to see his own son. He stepped reluctantly into the ICU waiting room, giving Alexander a warning glower the older Holmes brother was ignoring pointedly.

Elliot sagged onto one of the waiting room chairs, mumbling a thanks for the takeaway cup of tea Cruz put in his hands.

He sipped it gingerly – mostly it was just hot, without any real flavor, the way takeaway tea so often was. Elliot didn't care. The heat and the caffeine helped, making him feel somewhat more human.

A soft knock on the door admitted London's neurologist, followed by Dimmock, Alexander, Carlton and two of his men. The doctor gave Elliot a questioning look and he waved a hand vaguely, shaking his head.

"It's all right," he said.

"The last scan didn't show anything new," she told him. "Mild swelling, but there was no real change. We'll keep an eye on it, but the fact that London was awake and coherent – even if only for a few minutes – is a really good sign. I'd like to keep him in ICU for the day. If we see progress, or even no real change, by this evening, we can look at moving him."

Relief flooded through Elliot and he managed a nod, thanking her. She smiled sympathetically.

"The best thing you could do right now, Elliot, is get some rest."

He nodded again but didn't mean it this time; he wasn't leaving London unattended.

"Good advice," Cruz said, pushing himself to his feet, beckoning to Elliot.

"What–" Elliot started.

"I'm taking you home. You can shower. And get a few hours sleep in an actual bed."

"No," Elliot said, the stab of fear turning his voice hard. "Not a chance. I'm not leaving him alone–"

"You won't be," Cruz said.

"You've got work," Elliot protested.

Cruz raised his eyebrows, giving him a look that told him he'd said something ridiculous.

"We could always arrest you," Dimmock said re-joining them, entirely too cheerfully for Elliot's taste. The neurologist tried to hide a smile as she left.

"Fine," Elliot sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He wouldn't put it past Cruz and Dimmock to actually arrest him.

That wasn't at all police procedure – but then again, neither was most of the work London did for Scotland Yard.

"I'll call you if anything changes," Dimmock promised.

"In the meantime, we can go through all the interesting evidence London's bound to have in your apartment," Cruz added. "Alexandre couldn't tell us much, but I bet London can. It'll be even easier without him calling me an idiot the whole time or refusing to explain what he thinks is blindingly obvious."

"You can have all of it," Elliot promised.

If the Woman was really dead this time, he wanted nothing more to do with her.

She'd done enough damage. 

So had Mary.

If London had been able, he'd probably have protested Elliot's readiness to tell Cruz everything – he would want the triumph of explaining it all, the recognition of his brilliance, the praise for his work.

And Elliot would love watching it, soaring on the same post-case high, the same sense of victory over someone who had dared to take something that wasn't theirs.

But London wasn't able. The police could have everything. Elliot wasn't wasting a second more than he had to on the case now, but he'd be damned if he didn't give Scotland Yard any and every tool he had to track down whoever had done this to the Consulting Criminal.

"Drink this."

Elliot took the glass of whiskey that was extended to him, considered the early hour for a moment, then drank it anyway. Cruz took the empty glass from him, refilled it, and passed it back. The second shot left Elliot's head swimming a bit, but somehow also made him feel more human.

"Right," he said, steeling himself.

He took Cruz through all of it, from Ronald Adair's murder, to the mysterious letter supposedly from Alexandre, to Richard Douglas and Kareem Sarraf and the symbols in the tunnel that came from the cover of Alexandre's latest novel. He tried to keep it as straightforward as possible, but it was complicated enough without the haze of exhaustion, and Elliot was glad Cruz was recording everything and taking notes.

He handed over all of the papers London had collected that went with each case. The Consulting Criminal would be angry about that when he woke up – or at least when he became aware enough to understand it – but Elliot didn't care.

It wasn't going to Alexander (at least not directly) and if it helped the police sort out the rest of this mess before London was recovered, so much the better.

Once Cruz had gone, Elliot shaved and took a hot shower, then fixed himself a comforting cup of tea before crawling into bed. It felt strange without the Consulting Criminal there, but the incessant worry wasn't enough to keep his eyes from falling shut.

He awoke sometime later, disoriented, sitting up in a half-panic before he remembered where he was and why London wasn't there. He was glad he hadn't slept through an emergency call from the hospital, but a few seconds worth of talk would have gone a long way towards making him feel better.

With a soft groan, Elliot pushed himself out of bed, stretching slightly in a vain attempt to dislodge all the aches and pains that came from living overnight in a hospital ward. The shower and the nap in his own bed had helped, but he still felt disconnected from reality, like he'd taken a step to the side and was only watching normal life happen around him.

"Right," he muttered to himself. "Keep it together."

The phone suddenly rang and Elliot answered hurriedly, trying to swallow the rising panic.

"It's fine, I think." Cruz said immediately, foregoing a greeting, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's still asleep, but he's restless. I thought it might help to hear your voice. One second."

Elliot kept quiet for a moment, hearing the faint rustle as the phone was moved and, presumably, held to London's ear. He could hear London breathing, more rapidly and shallowly than a sleeping person should.

"Hey," he said. "Hey. Relax for me. Okay. It's fine. You're safe."

London made a faint noise on the other end of the line, the noise he made when Elliot talked him through his nightmares. Elliot winced, grateful Cruz couldn't see him and that he didn't know anything more about London's restlessness than this.

Elliot didn't let himself think, but just talked, keeping his voice low and steady, carrying on a one-sided conversation about whatever came to mind. It worked well enough when the Consulting Criminal had bad nights and Elliot hoped like hell it was working now.

"That's good," Cruz said after a few minutes. "He's settled now."

"I'm on my way," Elliot said, digging out a fresh pair of trousers as he rung off. It was no more than a few minutes until he'd put himself together, collecting his wallet, and keys, and he had a stroke of London's good luck on the street, where a few empty cabs were on their way past.

Cruz was waiting for him at Bart's, looking tired enough that Elliot felt a pang of guilt. But the Inspector still smiled reassuringly even as Elliot cast a critical gaze over London and the equipment monitoring his vital signs.

"He's woken up a few times, only for a few seconds at a time, but I think he had some idea where he is."

"Why?" Elliot asked.

"Because he looked around for you, then gave me that bloody pout when he realized you weren't here. Called me an idiot and then went back to sleep – pretty deliberately, I think."

Elliot nodded, hoping the wave of relief wasn't too visible on his features.

"The information you gave has helped a lot. There's more to chase down, of course, but it helps that we have all of the pieces."

"We still don't know who shot Irene," Elliot pointed out, working to keep his tone neutral and quiet enough for the room. "Or even if that really was Irene."

Cruz gave him a wry look, one that he couldn't quite read.

"Actually, we do. On both counts."

"What?" Elliot demanded. "How?"

"We have an eye-witness to the shooting," Cruz said, glancing quickly at London.

"What? How could he– you said he'd only been awake a few seconds."

"I did," he agreed. "But as we're both aware, it's not for nothing he's a genius." Cruz paused, pulling something from his pocket. "He recorded everything. From the moment you called the police until the battery died. I need to verify with someone who knows the voices, but the conversations are a good enough indication of who it is."

Elliot held out his hand, and Cruz gave him the small device, that London had more than likely "borrowed" from his brother, and a grim look.

"There's gunshots – be ready. I wasn't."

Elliot nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy and wondering if his ears were still ringing slightly. Even recorded from a distance, and muffled by London's clothing, it had to be loud. It had been loud enough from where he'd been in the construction site.

The Consulting Criminal had been much closer to it, Elliot realized abruptly. He'd answered the neurologist's questions readily enough, but Elliot added hearing checks to his mental list of London's care needs.

He took the chair, aware of Cruz watching him intently as he listened to the recording – first himself speaking, very muffled, to the police, followed by a period of silence when they'd crossed the site. Their brief discussion about rescuing the fake Benjamin was followed by an even longer silence, punctuated abruptly by London speaking – and being replied to.

"Irene," he confirmed, forcing himself to stay as relaxed as possible while listening to the verbal dance.

Even after everything, she'd been trying to string London along, and London, despite himself, had been playing along. Even if it was mostly for information, Elliot knew there was some small part of the Consulting Criminal that still needed that thrill, that flirtation with danger.

Changing that would be changing London, and Elliot had no desire to do that.

He just wished Irene would stop providing the stimulation.

The abruptness of another voice made him jump slightly, warning flares going off in his bad shoulder at the sudden tension.

"Mary," Elliot whispered around the blood hammering in his ears. Even on the recording, the sound of something striking the back of London's head multiple times, causing Elliot to wince – the butt of a gun, probably – was audible. As was the clatter and faint crunch when the device, in London's pocket, hit the concrete floor.

He took a deep breath, deliberately relaxing his grip.

If they found Mary, he was going to kill her.

Alexander could bloody well sort out the rest.

The rest of the conversation was muted; Elliot turned it down as much as he could while still being able to hear it. The gunshots were a shock nonetheless, even though he'd been expecting it and had heard it once before. He shut off the device and handed it back to Cruz.

"Three voices: London, Irene, and Mary," he confirmed, voice flat. "Which means Mary shot Irene. If that was really her of course."

"I think it was," Cruz said.

"Christ," Elliot sighed, dropping his head into his hands. "Where is she?"

"Mary? We haven't–"

"Irene. Where's Irene. Her body."

"The morgue. Here," he replied, watching him carefully.

"I need to see it," Elliot said, pushing himself to his feet.

"I don't think that's–"

"I need to see it, Greg. Mary's word bloody well isn't good enough!"

Cruz made a sharp gesture and Elliot set his jaw, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to lower his voice.

"Can you stay here awhile longer with him? I won't be long. I need to know. He needs to know." Elliot nodded at London, who hadn't so much as shifted since the doctor had returned. "He won't believe anyone else. Not on this."

He might not even believe me. Elliot tried to displace that thought, balling his hands into fists to keep it contained.

Cruz gave him a hard look then a curt nod, as if agreeing against his better judgment, like he always did when London and Elliot were involved. He probably was, but Elliot didn't care. He didn't need permission, he only needed him to stay with London.

He hurried down to the morgue, somewhat startled to find Molly on duty. With everything going on, he hadn't really put two and two together – but of course she'd be here. And of course she knew what had happened, he realized as she asked him how he was and how London was doing. Cruz would have told her, and she'd have Irene – hopefully the real Irene this time – in her morgue again.

"I went up to see him," Molly said, watching Elliot as carefully as Cruz had just been, and he wondered how he looked. Maybe like a landmine about to go off. "I hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," Elliot said, feeling disjointed at the fact that she was half apologizing. "You're his friend, Molly. I'm sorry – I should have told you."

"Elliot, no, you had London to think about. Greg told me. He came in just before, um, she– the body did. You want to see it, don't you?"

"Yeah," Elliot said, setting his jaw. Molly looked hesitant, gazed fixed on her gloved hands.

"I've been told," Elliot said. "And believe me, I've seen worse."

"No– I mean of course you have, but it's not that," Molly replied, looking back up at him, brown eyes bright with reluctance. "It's, um– I'm really sorry, Elliot, but London's brother made me promise I'd tell him if you came down to see it. Her."

Elliot expelled a harsh sigh, holding up a hand to stave off another apology from Molly, who didn't owe it to him.

"Of course he did," he said. "Figures. Call him then. I don't want you getting into trouble on my account."

She nodded and Elliot hovered out of earshot while she made the call, aware of her guilty glances. He didn't care what Alexander did, so long as it got him access to Irene's body.

"Come with me," Molly said when she'd gestured Elliot back inside. He steeled himself, following her down the short corridor, willing himself to be patient and not push past her or trip her up.

None of this was her fault. No matter how stupid the whole situation was, Molly was only doing her job, and Elliot couldn't blame her for that.

Molly pulled a body from cool storage for him, anonymous under a white sheet. She gave Elliot a questioning look, taking a deep breath when he nodded and drawing the sheet back to expose the head and neck.

It looked better than he imagined – someone had cleaned her up, so there was no blood on the forehead or matted in the hair, and the eyes were closed. Elliot stared at the face for a moment, then took the sheet from Molly without comment and pulled it off, ignoring her startled gasp.

London wasn't the only one who'd seen Irene naked, and Elliot was a doctor, after all.

He forced himself to take his time, studying her face carefully, opening her eyes one at a time to check the color. The last time he'd seen someone claiming to be her in the morgue, the face had been ruined beyond recognition.

This looked like her, from head to toe.

But it could be faked.

London had done just that himself, with the lookalike that James had used and disposed of.

Irene could have done the same.

But it had been her voice on the recording, and there had been gunshots. The body on the slab had died of a bullet to the brain.

It added up.

He didn't want to trust it, not yet, but Mary had sent that message. She would cover all of her bases and Elliot knew her well enough to know that when she wanted something done, she did it right.

Assuming it was actually her who had sent the message, of course.

The constant whirlwind of suspicion exhausted him suddenly, and Elliot wished he were alone so he could sag into a chair without needing to explain himself. The prospect of crawling onto a gurney and being enclosed in one of the small lockers where the bodies were stored was shockingly appealing – he wanted to shut out everything else and just sleep, so that when he woke up, all of this insanity would be over.

He took another deep breath, steeling himself, wondering how much longer he could keep doing that.

He'd been an army surgeon, he reminded himself. He'd done more, and for longer.

"How did–" Molly started, making an aborted gesture to the body on the stretcher. "How do you know–"

"What she looks like naked?" Elliot sighed. "Same way London did. That's how she introduced herself to us. She wasn't long on modesty. And she wanted to throw us off. Or him, I suppose."

"Did it– did it work?"

"Not as well as she'd have liked. His reaction or lack of was impressive." Elliot said, bracing himself on the edge of the stretcher, ignoring the body to fix his gaze on Molly. "His eyes never left her face the entire time. No matter what she said or did he maintained eye contact, which as you know, is something he has a great deal of problem with at the best of times. He was never going to be interested. Not more than professionally. Or intellectually."

Molly glanced down at Irene's face for a long moment, then nodded.

"I was jealous of the wrong person," she said.

"Yeah," Elliot agreed. "Me too." He managed a smile, almost feeling it. "You're not the only one who got the wrong idea."

Molly's lips twitched and Elliot caught a momentary gleam in her brown eyes.

"He must have called you an idiot for that," she said.

"And then some. He of course also made a whole speech," Elliot replied, with a glimmer of genuine humor.

"He would do," Molly said, her smile vanishing as she glanced up. Elliot looked over his shoulder to see Alexander stopping in the doorway, gaze skimming the naked body on the gurney before he sighed and rolled his eyes.

Elliot took a moment of petty revenge, leaving the body exposed briefly before tossing the sheet back over it, covering it back up with Molly's help.

"Miss Hooper, if you don't mind, I need to speak with Elliot alone," Alexander said. Molly gave Elliot a quick look, then hurried out when he nodded despite his better judgment.

He wasn't entirely sure he should be alone in a room with Alexander right now, and not because he was worried about his own safety.

He curled his hands around the handles of the gurney, glad that the body was covered again. Something about the anonymity of the white sheet kept the person under it from being too distracting.

"Elliot–"

"Shut up," Elliot said, taking another deep breath, wondering how much longer he could hold on. "Just shut up."

He tried to order his thoughts, tried to find some level headed-ness that would keep him from ripping the whole conversation and Alexander to shreds. He needed information that Alexander had. London needed that information.

He could stay focused, for that.

"Is this her, Alexander? Is it really her?"

Alexander gave him a long look, one that cut right through him. Elliot let it, knowing he didn't have any defenses left worth mustering.

"We believe so."

"You believe so– you believe so? That's not– that's not bloody good enough, Alexander! You were so sure the last two times–"

"Which is why we're being more cautious this time. And the evidence–"

"What evidence?" Elliot snapped. "She faked the body the first time, and she faked the second time!"

"Yes she set it up both previous times. All of the evidence the police have – some of which you provided – indicates this wasn't her idea. I'm certain that, having never met Amélie, Irene made the unfortunate, and rather terminal, mistake of underestimating her."

"The police," Elliot repeated, covering his eyes with one hand. "Of course you've bloody talked to them."

"There are national security issues here, Elliot. And need I remind you that my brother has been caught in the crossfire."

"And because of that, he won't see this!" Elliot snapped, gesturing at the stretcher. "I need to know, Alexander! Who else do you think he's going to bloody believe about this? I don't even know if he'll believe me! This needs to be rock solid–"

"He will believe himself," Alexander interjected. "Gregory shared the recording with me as well."

"This isn't good enough," Elliot said, voice verging on a snarl.

"There isn't much more–"

"I don't mean this!" Elliot shouted, patience unraveling. "I don't mean Irene's body, if this is really her, which it actually probably is this time! I mean all of this!" He gestured to the room, then jabbed a finger at Alexander. "Mary is still bloody out there and your brother's in a hospital bed because she or one of her people put him there. You heard the bloody recording! You know it was her and you had months when she was right under your nose and now London's and your greatest weapon, has taken several blows and we still don't have her!"

"Elliot–"

"No!" Elliot snarled, pushing himself away from the gurney, making a sharp, threatening gesture that made the older Holmes draw back slightly, fueling Elliot's anger. "No, don't even try because there's no talking your way out of this one! He's your goddamn brother and she put him in ICU– they both did, and I'm going to have to explain to London that Irene's dead – really this time, and hope he bloody believes it and that we're right – and that Mary's still out there! So don't– be all high and mighty at me right now! Instead do the right thing. Do your bloody job and protect your brother by fixing this mess!"

He ran out of steam so suddenly it made him sag; he gripped the edge of the stretcher for good measure and shot Alexander a glare that warned against pushing him further. Alexander held his gaze for a long moment, then drew a breath to reply, an annoyed look flickering across his features when a knock at the door interrupted them.

Molly pushed the door open, looking between both of them hesitantly but with an expression that told Elliot she wasn't going to back down.

"Sorry, Elliot but," she said, gaze flickering back to him. "London's doctor just called down. She'd like to see you."

Elliot forced himself not to run, ignoring the panicked urgency that made his muscles twitch. Molly had relayed the doctor's reassurance that nothing was wrong, she only wanted to update him, but Elliot couldn't shake the feeling that the update might be something serious.

Even if it didn't seem that way now.

Maybe something that appeared innocuous that led to a critical problem down the line.

He'd seen that enough times in Afghanistan. If there were even slight irregularities or if London's wounds got infected.

'Stop it,' he told himself firmly, hoping like hell Alexander wasn't picking up on his tension. It wasn't helping to have London's brother following like a tall, silent shadow.

Elliot would have preferred to do this alone, but he honestly had no good reason for turning Alexander away.

Cruz was still in the room when they arrived, looking cheery despite the fatigue. Something inside of Elliot loosened at his relaxed demeanor; if there had been something wrong – even just a little bit wrong – he wouldn't have given him that reassuring smile.

"Oh good, you're both here," the doctor said without preamble. Elliot hoped the lack of social niceties annoyed Alexander. "I'm happy with both of London's results and he's out of immediate danger, so I think it's time to move him somewhere quieter. We have a private room at your request, Mr. Holmes, but I would advise against transferring him to another hospital."

"What?" Elliot asked, glaring back at Alexander. "He stays here."

"A private hospital would–"

"He stays here," Elliot repeated. "End of story."

He had the Consulting Criminal's power of attorney, and he knew Alexander was well aware of that and it still didn't sit well with him that his  little brother had so quickly and easily handed it over to him. It was a decision that the older Holmes was always trying to reverse and in the face of the reality of who his brother chose to trust with his very life again, Alexander glowered but relented. A bit too readily for Elliot's taste, but he hoped that was only because Alexander knew better than to start an argument in a hospital rather than because he had secret plans to transfer his brother somewhere else when Elliot wasn't looking.

"I'll have the paperwork put through and we'll get him ready to go," she promised before leaving them alone, four adults crowded into a tiny, curtained-off area.

"Greg, you look shattered," Elliot said bluntly. He gave him a wry look but nodded.

"If you're staying, them I'm finally clocking out," he replied.

"I'll arrange a car," Alexander said. Cruz looked like he'd refuse for a moment, then shrugged and nodded.

"Let me know the moment anything changes, the moment he wakes up."

"I will," Elliot promised, bidding him good bye as he exchanged places with Alexander. Of the two of them, he'd have picked Cruz to stay, but didn't have much choice.

London stirred as the orderlies were settling him into the private room, scowling as he opened his eyes. Elliot positioned himself to be the first thing the Consulting Criminal saw; he didn't want to add to London's stress by putting his older brother front and center. London's gaze was still glassy but more focused, which would have relieved Elliot if London hadn't immediately tried to disentangle himself from the IV line and the heart rate monitor attached to his middle finger.

"No, no," Elliot said, using his best reassuring doctor's tone, taking London's hands, holding them firmly but gently against the Consulting Criminal's resistance.

"Get it off now," London muttered, voice slurred, flexing his fingers around Elliot's.

"It has to stay on for a bit. Just a bit longer, okay?"

"No," London mumbled but relented, casting an annoyed glare at one of the orderlies, who held up his hands.

"All done," the orderly said.

"Piss off," London muttered, tugging his hands from Elliot's to pull the sheet up, trying to cover himself completely. Elliot grasped the sheet, easing it down as a nurse came in, taking the orderlies' places.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she said pleasantly, apparently unfazed by London's glare. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," London answered, earning a raised eyebrow from the nurse and a repressed sigh from Elliot. The Consulting Criminal, thankfully, hadn't seemed to notice Alexander yet – or he was ignoring him – and London's brother had wisely taken up a seat on the other side of the room, watching silently.

"I'm sure," the nurse replied. "I'm going to ask you some questions. Can you tell me your name?"

"Yes," London replied. She waited, then gave her head a little shake.

"I need you to tell it to me."

"London Holmes," he said obediently, but with more than a touch of petulance.

"Your full name, please."

"London William Christopher Holmes."

"Good. And your address?"

"Baker Street," he muttered in reply, then sighed when Elliot raised an eyebrow. "221 Baker Street."

"And the current prime minister?"

London's expression shifted from irritation to sudden panic and he glanced at Elliot, who sighed, shaking his head.

"He won't know that anyway. Oxygen?"

London stared at him, then shot Elliot another glower.

"Symbol 'O'. Atomic number '8'. Atomic Mass '15.999 mass units'. Protons, electrons and neutrons, '8'. With a melting point of -214.8 and boiling point of -183.0."

"Good," Elliot replied, and London relaxed slightly, glancing around the room, confusion suddenly replacing the annoyance. He sat partway up, registered Alexander's presence, and lay back down quickly, meeting Elliot's eyes with more than a touch of panic.

"It's okay," Elliot quietly said. London swallowed hard, clutching the blanket, gaze skittering back to his brother, who had pushed himself to his feet and was watching carefully. To London, who had grown up in his brother's shadow, it probably felt like Alexander was hovering menacingly, and something clicked for Elliot about the whole situation.

The Consulting Criminal had indeed been in this situation before.

Relapse.

Overdose.

Disappointment.

Waking up in a hospital with no memory of how he got there and finding himself seemingly trapped with his older brother.

"You got hit on the head a few times," he said, stroking the backs of his fingers across the exposed skin on London's shaved head. He didn't care how intimate the action was; he wanted London to focus on him rather than on Alexander. "That's why you're in the hospital. You haven't done anything wrong, all right?"

London nodded, eyes still wide, and Elliot squeezed his hand again.

"I promise. No drugs."

London nodded again, more slowly, glancing back at Alexander before meeting Elliot's gaze.

"Okay," he whispered.

"You need to answer the nurse's questions, all right? It will help them take care of you."

London's hand tightened hard around Elliot's and he swallowed as if steeling himself. Elliot could see him struggling now and glanced quickly at the nurse, who had seen the same thing.

"I'm going to give you three things to remember, then you can sleep again," she said. "It's all right if you don't remember them right away. Five flowers, red pencils, and blue pens. Can you repeat that back to me?"

London moved his lips silently, glanced at Elliot, and shook his head.

"No," he whispered.

"That's all right," the nurse said despite the sinking feeling in Elliot's stomach. "We'll work on it. In the meantime, get some rest."

Elliot helped London get comfortable again and fed him a couple of more ice chips before the Consulting Criminal's eyes dropped shut, his body relaxing against the mattress. Elliot let out a slow breath, the momentary relief dissipating when London screwed up his features, forcing his eyes back open.

"What happened?" he murmured.

"You were hit in the head."

"When?"

"On a case," Elliot said, not surprised but still somehow disappointed that London didn't remember.

"I thought we were in Paris," London muttered.

"No, not for a few days now," Elliot replied.

London nodded but fidgeted, pulling at his IV line.

"Take this off please," he said, voice slurred with fatigue.

"We can't right now, but we will soon. Just sleep. All right?"

"Fine," London muttered, shuffling down a bit, eyes dropping shut again. Elliot rubbed his thumb over London's knuckles, keeping up the reassuring touch until his breathing had evened out again. He rubbed a hand over his face, turning to Alexander, who had cleared his throat pointedly.

"Your diagnosis?" Alexander asked.

"I'm not a neurologist," Elliot replied with a harsh sigh.

"Speaking as a medical professional who knows my brother intimately."

"It's good that he's coherent," Elliot replied shortly. "Less good that he's confused and doesn't remember much. It's really too early to tell much. We just have to wait and see."

It didn't sit well with him, but he could tell it was less pleasant for Alexander, who was used to things happening when he wanted them to happen or used to having London seemingly within the snap of his fingers being able to get his greatest weapon back online with the rest of him.

"I trust you have no objection to our father returning," Alexander said. Elliot swallowed said objections – they weren't really about London's father so much as wanting no one else in the room – and nodded.

"Fine," he replied.

The light came and went, irritating patches of brightness that were always so full of sound, of voices yammering his name and making demands on him, wanting to know something about pencils and flowers, which was clearly nonsense because those two things did not go together.

It was easier to slip back into the darkness, but even that became chaotic – he was sure it hadn't always been, that there had been nothing there before, where now there was an inexplicable image of black liquid on a floor, or on a wall. There was a pattern to the surface, or a texture, and he could feel it sometimes, like the brush of a feather on his fingertips, the lines and curls of the wallpaper in Baker Street, or cool concrete, smooth and rough at the same time. The two surfaces didn't go together but when he tried to unravel it, other senses betrayed him, his concentration broken by the brush of a breath against his ear, the smell of smoke. He tried to get the smell off of himself, hampered every single time by Elliot, who wouldn't let him do anything, who insisted the smell – no the IV tubes – why IV tubes? – had to stay on and that he should just rest.

He was tired of resting, he wanted to rest less, he was restless but his body obeyed Elliot's instructions far more readily than it obeyed his own mind, which would have been infuriating except that he seemed to have drifted into a family reunion: his father, Alexander, Elliot and Cruz.

Surely they wouldn't do that here, in this white room? It was so boring – but the whole situation was boring, overburdened with some inane story about a lost lottery ticket and a misplaced pair of reading glasses. London stared toward the window, trying to see the Parisian skyline, and gave up when Elliot blocked the view. Elliot was talking and London cared, he really did, but he didn't understand why Elliot looked different – dressed differently than he had just been and why were all these people in their hotel room, making Elliot change out of the soft hotel bathrobe into something so boring?

He nodded to whatever Elliot said, something about pencils and flowers – but why? – and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Elliot had changed again.

Into Alexander.

Now that really was impressive.

But problematic.

London didn't want to live with his brother again. That would be irritating and tedious all at the same time. Annoyed and bored – the worst possible combination. And Alexander would insist on keeping things tidier. Hire a cleaner, have someone else in to do the cooking. Always be watching over London's shoulder. Do this, do that. Father would be upset. Alexander would be upset. Was he suppose to care?

Why had Elliot had to change? It seemed unnecessary. He liked Elliot the way he was. Now he had no short friend. Would they take away his coat, too? Then he wouldn't look as tall. And the hat. They'd make him wear the hat. Was he wearing it now? He hoped not. He'd need all new clothes. Like Elliot's, only better. Except Alexander-Elliot was well dressed and that was good. But not a jacket, no. A suit. London would miss the jackets. They were so Elliot. He wore suits and now Alexander-Elliot wore suits.

He didn't want Elliot stealing his suits. They wouldn't fit him. He'd look ridiculous.

"Try to stay awake this time, at least for a few minutes," Elliot said and Alexander didn't move his lips.

Fascinating.

When had Elliot learned to do that? London had never seen him practice, he was sure. Was it meant to be a surprise?

But then there was Elliot and Alexander, which meant Elliot hadn't changed into Alexander, which was very good news.

London smiled, and closed his eyes.

The hours blurred into one another, broken up only by the snatches of time in which London was awake. He was still disoriented, asking repeatedly what had happened, convinced they were in Paris and confused about Alexander and his father's presence, but Elliot made himself take heart that at least London was coherent when he was awake. He seemed put off by the memory task he'd been given, complaining about the lack of logic behind it, and some small part of Elliot felt relieved about that – it was familiar Consulting Criminal petulance.

Eventually, London's father left, Carlton promising to come back first thing in the morning. Elliot nodded, sinking into a chair with a sigh when he was left alone in the room with a sleeping Consulting Criminal. The prospect of another night spent sleeping in a chair was alleviated when the nurses brought him a camp bed – it wasn't the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on, but far from the worst, and certainly better than the chair.

He wished he'd thought to bring a change of clothes – not to mention soap and deodorant – but he could ring Cruz the next morning. In the meantime, he stripped down to his t-shirt, trousers, socks and settled onto the cot and listening to London's steady breathing.

Elliot woke up the few times London did, hauling himself up with a repressed groan each time to make sure the Consulting Criminal didn't panic or pull out his IV line. When pressed, London muttered that it didn't hurt, but Elliot had the nurse check it anyway. It wasn't entirely surprising that London didn't like it – he'd never suffered medical care easily and there were, Elliot suspected, memories of drugs or rehab racing through his currently damaged head.

Morning brought no real change for the Consulting Criminal, so Elliot showered in the tiny bathroom, making do with the hospital-issue soap, which brought back memories, and wishing he had a razor. Reluctantly, he pulled his clothes back on and quickly called Cruz to bring some fresh clothes and toiletries from Baker Street, and, in a moment of inspiration, a few things for London.

By some miracle of bureaucracy – or perhaps a kind-hearted nurse – London and Elliot were issued breakfast, which Elliot ate without any remorse. Even if London had been awake, after a serious concussion the food probably wouldn't have stayed down. Elliot was more than happy to take it, even if it was bland and uninspired.

Elliot grabbed the newspaper that had come with breakfast and caught up on the news, astonished at everything that had happened in just over a day. The fire had been put out quickly and there were no fatalities – at least, no reported fatalities.

It didn't escape his notice that no mention was made of Irene's death.

But the reports did buoy him slightly; it probably meant the fake Benjamin had escaped.

He wanted him caught – but wouldn't wish him dead.

Alexandre was all over the news, of course – Elliot wasn't sure why he was so surprised but it took him aback to see the pictures: grainy shots of Alexandre being led into Scotland Yard, more polished photos from a press conference late yesterday. Alexandre, flanked by his wife and daughter, thanked Scotland Yard, London, and Elliot himself for rescuing him. Elliot felt a wry stab of humor at that – it had been Mary who'd freed Alexandre, and Alexandre who had dragged London to safety.

A knock on the door distracted him and Elliot stood, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his muscles. He was expecting Alexander, or Carlton, but a police escort consisting of Cruz and Dimmock, as well as two uniformed officers, flanking Alexandre and his family caught Elliot up short.

He was suddenly aware of how rumpled he was, with a day's growth of stubble and in somewhat stale clothing, but Alexandre didn't seem to care at all, pulling him into a fierce hug. Stunned, Elliot tried to return it, but by the time his mind had caught up, Juliette had swooped in to give him a kiss on either cheek and a one-armed hug, laughing and thanking him. He managed a "you're welcome", still off-balance, aware that Alexandre was glancing past him into the room.

"'How is 'e?" Alexandre asked.

"He's all right," Elliot said, "Or as good as he can be. He doesn't remember much right now, when he's awake. He's, um– he wouldn't made it out without you. So thank you."

Alexandre gave him a wry look, then said something in rapid French to his wife. From Dimmock's raised eyebrow, he knew he'd understood whatever Alexandre had said well enough to lead Juliette and Cruz away, ordering the uniformed officers to stand guard outside the door.

Elliot let Alexandre into the room, where the Frenchman glanced at London's sleeping form before turning his attention back to Elliot.

"They explained everything to me – I'm sorry I got you – both of you – caught up in all of this."

The apology took Elliot by surprised, and he shook his head, holding up a hand.

"I think it's the other way around," he said. "We were already involved when we came to Paris. This is… this is what London, what we do. You're the one who shouldn't have been dragged into it."

"No one should 'ave, I think. It doesn't make much sense."

"No," Elliot sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling a sharper stab of resentment at Mary and Irene and all of their deceptions and games. He took a deep breath, wrestling the familiar rage back under control. Hating Irene was a waste of time now, but knowing that didn't stop the fury.

She was half the reason London was lying in the hospital, oblivious to the world happening around him.

"May I come back when he's doing better?" Alexandre asked. "I'd like to say thank you, properly."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Just– be careful, yeah?"

"I will be," Alexandre said, expression serious and tone somber. Elliot shook his hand, feeling slightly guilty that he couldn't muster much energy to worry about how this would affect Alexandre, what he'd think and do now after such an ordeal.

"Thank you, Elliot. Really. And thank 'im for me when 'e wakes up."

"I will," Elliot promised. Alexandre gave him a half smile with no real humor in it, and paused to take one of London's hands, squeezing it tightly, before bidding Elliot good-bye and leaving with the police escort. Elliot watched him walk down the corridor, joined by his wife, Cruz and Dimmock.

He waved Cruz and Dimmock away, aware he didn't have much time left on his own, and settled in to wait Alexander and Carlton to descend on the tiny hospital room once more.

London had been better throughout the day, awake more and asking what had happened less frequently. A small part of Elliot wondered if the Consulting Criminal had just given up asking, but it wasn't like London to stop harping on something he didn't understand.

He took a brief walk outside while London was asleep, but stayed in the room otherwise – London did better when he was awake if Elliot was there, less prone to confusion and sulking. He tolerated his brother and father's presence remarkably well, but with some uncertainty, as if he were constantly waiting to be scolded.

It bothered Elliot – a lot – that London hadn't seemed to make the connection between his concussion and Alexander and Carlton's visit. If anything, Elliot thought London was still secretly concerned he was in rehab.

When Alexander and Carlton left for the day, Elliot let out a silent sigh of relief, drawing the privacy curtain to block the view of anyone glancing in through the door's small window. He sat back down next to the bed, aware of a sharp, grey-eyed gaze on him. That was familiar, although it wasn't as focused as Elliot was used to, and definitely not as insightful.

London, Elliot was well aware, had been taking his cues from him all day.

Well, there are worse things, he thought, keeping a wry smirk to himself.

"Do you remember what happened?" Elliot asked.

"No," London said bluntly, then cut Elliot off when the doctor opened his mouth to explain. "Although I do remember you telling me I sustained a concussion on a case."

"Good," Elliot sighed. "That's good. Do you remember the memory prompt the nurse gave you?"

They'd been working on that all day and to no avail – London could remember the combination of flowers and pens, but not the whole thing, and the task seemed to aggravate him.

"I remember it's idiotic," London snapped. Elliot heaved a sigh, shaking his head.

"It helps track your progress."

"I hardly need some inane task to aid my memory. It does nothing but illustrate some talent for rote memorization."

"Yes, that's the point," Elliot said. London cast him a glare, slouching down in the bed and folding his arms.

"It's a stupid point," he muttered, refusing to meet Elliot's gaze, which the doctor understood as defeat. As long as the Consulting Criminal could claim it was pointless, he wouldn't have to admit the simple task was eluding him.

"Fine," Elliot relented. It wasn't worth pushing the point, not yet. And London had a long day. Part of Elliot wanted to take him back to Baker Street immediately, where he had some control over who came and went – but that meant putting London back in his work environment and Elliot had no desire to find out what kind of disaster the Consulting Criminal might cause with volatile chemicals and memory problems.

Elliot was pulled from his inner thoughts of London possibly burning down the recently rebuilt Baker Street apartments, by the sight of the Consulting Criminal scratching at his arms and the stubble forming on his face.

He needed a shower and possibly a shave if he could handle Elliot gripping his face and moving his head as needed, which he highly doubted at this point.

"Okay. Let's get you into the bathroom. Think you can handle a shower?" he asked. London scowled but gave a curt nod. Elliot called the nurse to unhook the Consulting Criminal from the machines and the IV, then helped his partner to his feet. London deigned to suffer Elliot's help getting into the tiny bathroom, casting an angry glare at Elliot as if the small area was somehow his fault.

Elliot had Cruz bring London's things as well and was glad for it – he didn't have to worry about washing London's hair, since he no longer had any but he could help by keeping an eye on him and then help bundle him into his fresh pajamas after he dried himself off.

It was a relief to throw open the bathroom door, letting the steam that had been trapped in the tiny space begin to dissipate. Elliot had been fighting it the whole time, but the sudden rush of cooler air from the main room made him cough, gripping the porcelain sink until he managed to get himself under control. He took a few slow, deep breaths, surprised to feel something plastic pressed against the back of his hand.

Elliot took the cup instinctively, glancing up at London, who was watching him sharply, grey eyes still ringed by slight swelling and black bruises.

"It won't help the actual smoke damage, but it may have some effect on your throat. Aggravating the rest of your respiratory system isn't beneficial."

"How did you–" Elliot started, then paused to take a drink of the water when another coughing fit threatened.

"Know about the smoke damage to your lungs?" London asked, scowling slightly when Elliot nodded and gesturing to the main room. Elliot followed London out, choosing to ignore the relief that flooded the Consulting Criminal's features when he eased himself onto the bed.

"Obvious, really," London said. "You've been clearing your throat all day – it might have been an indication of nervousness at having my brother and father here, only you didn't stop doing it after they left. If you were ill, with a cold or something more serious, the hospital wouldn't permit you to visit. Being a doctor, you're inclined to be more cavalier with your health, but you wouldn't compromise mine – although you might compromise the safety of other patients if forced to choose between them and me."

"I wouldn't–" Elliot started.

"You would and do," London interjected blithely, as if Elliot risking an entire hospital's worth of patients wasn't an issue. It bothered Elliot that London was right – but it shouldn't really surprise him, he thought. He'd shot and killed someone to save London and nearly added Donovan to the list minutes later when he first heard him utter "freak", after knowing the Consulting Criminal a few hours.

"Alexander wouldn't allow you to be so irresponsible, however, and he wouldn't have missed the signs, which means he's aware of whatever caused your distress. I was injured on a case; it stands to reason that you might have suffered something as well, and you never specified my concussion was the only incident that took place. A fire would explain both your coughing – and presumably my lack of coughing, assuming I was unconscious or close to and that you were at least in part responsible for rescuing me. You would have been breathing faster and more deeply when exerting yourself. It also explains my recurring dreams about smoke."

Elliot froze, mind stuttering for a moment before catching up, and he put his cup aside, crossing the room in two long strides to stand right in front of London.

"What?" he demanded. "You dreamed about the fire? You remember that?"

"I smelled smoke," London said. "Or dreamed I did."

"What else?" Elliot pressed. "Anything else?"

London sighed, looking away, irritation flickering over his pale features.

"Images only. Some sensations. Nothing that makes sense. Maybe some from – wherever we were. I don't know. You haven't told me yet."

Elliot sighed, dropping his head into one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I have, actually," he said. "Not everything, but some."

The admission sat poorly with the Consulting Criminal, who refused to meet his gaze, expression stormy.

"Scent is the strongest sense associated with memory," London pointed out, voice cool.

"Yes," Elliot said, reluctantly letting go to the hopes the Consulting Criminal's admission had sparked. He shouldn't have expected that much, and for London even to remember the smell of the smoke was remarkable. He should hold onto that, he told himself.

London's memory couldn't be that badly damaged if he remembered the fire.

And his observation skills were alive and well – it was the first real example of that Elliot had seen since the Consulting Criminal had woken up.

Elliot had to swallow down the massive sigh of relief, along with a smile, that wanted to break free at the realization. 

Memories could be relearned but thankfully the core of the Consulting Criminal was still there.

"Oh," Elliot said, suddenly remembering something himself. "Speaking of…"

He rummaged through the bag of supplies Cruz had brought until he found what he was looking for. Elliot pulled out the chocolate-colored dressing gown, giving it a shake and holding it up for London to see.

"Remember this?"

The ghost of a smile touched the edges of London's lips and he sat up on the hospital bed, gesturing for Elliot to bring the dressing gown over. Elliot helped him into it, and London pressed the silk against his nose, inhaling deeply.

He paused, sniffed again, then looked up, giving Elliot a puzzled look before tears well up in his eyes, streaking down his cheeks. London looked startled, reaching up with a shaking hand to touch his face, the tremors spreading up his arms to his shoulders.

"Hey, hey, no, no" Elliot said, pulling London into a hug, startled by the suddenness and severity of the shaking. London clutched at his back, face pressed into Elliot's chest, obviously trying to regulate his breathing.

"It's okay," Elliot said. "It's an after-effect of the concussion. It's okay."

It had probably been a bad idea to give London the dressing gown – he had only worn it the one time, in Paris, so it would still smell the same, triggering what Elliot could privately admit were some intense memories.

It still surprised him, even after all this time, how much emotion London tied to Elliot. He had never really expected it – but then again, there were days when he suspected he was the only one who hadn't.

"It's all right," Elliot murmured, rubbing soothing circles on London's back. He managed a nod, but that didn't stop the shuddering or the tears he was trying to keep quiet. Elliot kept up the whispered reassurances until the episode had passed, leaving London pale and rung out, bruised eyes ringed with red.

When Elliot tried to help London out of the dressing gown, the Consulting Criminal clutched it stubbornly, shaking his head. Elliot relented immediately – there was no sense fighting; it wouldn't get either of them anywhere. He called the nurse in instead, who hooked London back up to the IV and the monitors while Elliot got him fully settled on the bed.

By the time the nurse had left and Elliot had drawn the privacy curtain again behind her, London was fast asleep. With a quiet sigh, Elliot tucked the blankets more carefully around his sleeping partner, trying not to be bothered by the way the black eyes made London's features look sunken and too thin.

He brushed his teeth, closing the bathroom door when another coughing fit – this one mercifully shorter – overcame him, then changed into his pajamas and crawled into the low camp bed. Elliot lay awake, counting London's slow breathing until he could match his own to it, and fell asleep.

Elliot awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of his murmured name, sitting up before being fully conscious, focusing on London.

The Consulting Criminal was watching him across the room, his gaze visible in the light from the machines and that bled in from the hallway despite the closed curtain.

"Yeah," Elliot said, pushing himself to his feet and padding across the room, vainly trying to shake the fatigue that clung to the edges of his mind. "What do you need?"

"Water," London replied. Elliot filled a cup for each of them, sitting down next to the bed, keeping an eye on his partner as London sipped his drink carefully.

The Consulting Criminal gazed into his cup, refusing to meet Elliot's gaze.

"Have you already told me who did this?" he muttered, and Elliot didn't have to be an observational genius to hear the trepidation in that question.

London was, he realized, just as terrified of the memory loss as Elliot was.

"No," Elliot said, and London let out a deep breath, shoulders relaxing visibly.

"Who was it?" he asked, turning his gaze to meet Elliot's. "Who did this?"

"Mary," Elliot said bluntly. Surprise flickered across London's features, and Elliot wondered how many people he'd considered and rejected before asking the question.

"Why?" London asked.

"Do you remember Georges Alexandre? The French author we met in Paris?"

London looked hesitant, searching for a memory, so Elliot pulled out a photo – not one from the recent news, no need to complicate things more – and passed it to his partner. London studied it for a moment, then nodded uncertainly.

"He looks… familiar," London said. Elliot tried not to let the admission bother him, but London rarely made that kind of connection. Either he would have recognized Alexandre immediately or have deleted him completely.

"Well, it turns out he's Mary's half-brother."

"What?"

Elliot sighed, filling his cup again, more for something to do than out of actual necessity. He ran a thumb along the rim, wondering how to explain – most of this would be new territory since London had woken up, although he'd mentioned a few times that London had been injured in an incident on a construction site during a case.

He explained as best he could without going into too much detail: someone had made the link between Mary and Alexandre, neither of whom had known about the other up until now, and had tried to use Alexandre to get to her.

"Who?" London demanded.

"We don't really know yet," Elliot lied boldly, hoping like hell London wouldn't see through it. "But you were able to track down his location, partly because the construction site was a building Mary had invested in."

That was true enough without being entirely accurate – he was probably in for it when he had to tell London the whole truth, but he didn't care. Two in the morning in a hospital room was neither the time nor the place to go into Irene's involvement.

"Why would Mary have done this then?" London asked.

"Good bloody question," Elliot muttered in response. He knew the answer – she wanted London out of the way to deal with Irene herself – but there were so many better ways to have done it.

Drugging him would have worked just as well.

He remembered what she'd told London about Sebastian, about taking care of a problem herself. The Consulting Criminal had been in her way, however briefly, and she'd removed him.

It probably seemed like simple arithmetic to her.

But she wasn't the one dealing with the very messy, very human aftermath.

"But you saved him. Alexandre. You're the reason we found him." Elliot left out the details of Mary having freed her half-brother and instructed him on where to find London – he could go into that later and it didn't change the fact that without London, Mary wouldn't have known where Alexandre was.

"Obviously," London replied dryly, and Elliot's lips quirked into a half smile.

"And you will be fine," Elliot said, half to convince himself, half to convince London.

London said nothing to that, but passed his cup back to Elliot and shuffled down under the blankets, deliberately closing his eyes. Elliot sighed, put the cups aside, and moved back to his own narrow bed in the hopes of finding a bit more sleep.

The days began to blur into one another, a familiar and tiring pattern of visits from London's family, of petulant sulks and barely restrained frustration when they were left alone. The memory task continued to elude him – he'd gotten it right once or twice, but only with very obvious effort, and although Elliot didn't have to explain more than once that Mary was responsible for London's concussion, he had to clarify the details of Alexandre's involvement several times.

The neurologist didn't seem overly concerned, which should have been a relief but only annoyed Elliot. For anyone else, the fragmented recollections and the memory loss might have been normal, but London wasn't just anyone else.

The Consulting Criminal was his mind, and Elliot knew that better than anyone else, except maybe London himself.

He tried to stay patient but it was hard in the face of London's frustration, of the slow pace of his recovery. More than once, Elliot had to reassure his partner that he wasn't in the hospital for drugs, but at least Elliot could content himself with the fact that London only thought that when he woke up, before his brain had a chance to catch up with the facts.

But even that felt false – London was normally never disoriented when he woke up, as if the part of his brain that processed and analyzed information never completely shut off.

If Mary had managed to disable that… the need to swallow that rage was becoming familiar to Elliot, just as much as London's aggravation was.

He stayed with London much as possible, the occasional break feeling more like a burden than a respite. When Elliot wasn't in the hospital room, he worried about London constantly, and despised leaving the Consulting Criminal alone, even for a few minutes. This wasn't generally a problem, because London usually had some visitors – which was wearing both of them down – but Elliot did sometimes have to leave him alone in the evenings to grab a quick meal in the hospital's cafeteria.

The food was becoming less and less appetizing each time he ate there, and Elliot was already counting down the days until he could take London home.

The Consulting Criminal had no release date yet – the neurologist and doctors were being cautious, probably partly at Alexander's request. Elliot resented and appreciated that in equal parts, and vacillating between the two was tiring him out even more.

Soon, he promised himself for the umpteenth time as he stepped onto London's floor. He hadn't been home since Cruz had taken him back to Baker Street the second day of London's hospital stay; he'd owe Cruz, who had been bringing things for him and London and keeping an eye on the apartment, a big favor when this was all done and dusted, but didn't have time to worry much about that now.

He knocked softly on the door, so as not to startle London if his partner was just drifting off or waking up, and stepped past the curtain to find an empty room.

Elliot froze, heart skipping a beat before his adrenaline spiked, sending his pulse skyrocketing. He crossed the room in two long strides, yanking the bathroom door open, hoping against hope that London's affronted expression would greet him, but it was as empty as the rest of the room.

He shoved the curtain aside again, striding into the hallway, torn between scouring the hospital himself right now or alerting the duty nurse and waiting, impatiently, for the hospital's security to do something.

He was saved from the decision when London emerged from the doors leading to the morgue, supported by Molly Hooper, his irritated expression bordering on dangerous.

"Where the bloody hell did you go?" Elliot hissed, striding toward them. London glared at him and Molly shook her head.

"He came down to visit me," she replied. "But don't ask me how he got there, because he doesn't remember."

"I walked," London said coolly. "It's not that difficult."

"You can't just bloody leave!" Elliot snapped, fighting to keep his voice low – he didn't want to attract the nurse's attention or disturb anyone else who might complain and get them noticed.

"I didn't leave," London muttered in a tone that told Elliot he knew all too well he'd bent the rules beyond reasonable limits but wasn't willing to cop to it. "I was still in the hospital."

"You can't leave your room," Elliot sighed. "Not without telling someone!"

"Am I a prisoner?" London snapped as Molly helped him back into the room. Elliot closed the door behind them, taking care not to slam it despite the urge to do so.

"No, you're an injured man who's under potential threat from an international criminal and her network!"

"If Mary wanted me dead, I would be," London replied with infuriating reasonableness given the situation. "I wanted a change of scenery. And now I want to know who is dead."

"What?" Elliot and Molly asked at the same time.

"There's someone in the morgue I'm not meant to know about," London replied bluntly. "Although Molly is always nervous around me, she's generally not so focused about it."

"Holmes!" Elliot admonished, casting an apologetic glance at Molly, who looked embarrassed. It was true, but he wished London had learned enough tact not to say it.

Or any tact at all.

"You kept glancing towards the cool storage without trying to be obvious about it," London said, redirecting his comments to Molly. "You were clearly agitated by my presence there, and not simply because you were unhappy that I'd come down on my own, despite your protests otherwise. You didn't want me to be there because there's something you don't want me to see." He turned to Elliot, grey eyes icy. "I've been here a week, Molly's been up to visit several times. If she's spoken to me, she's spoken to you about me. Whatever she's trying to keep from me, you're well aware of it, and you don't want me to know but that is going to change."

He fixed Elliot with a hard gaze, unwavering and unrelenting.

"Who abducted Georges Alexandre and who died?"