“I want to see.”

“Holmes–”

“I want to see.”

Elliot sighed, studying his partner’s face. London was watching him intently, everything about his expression telling Elliot he would go back to the morgue with or without the doctor’s consent.

It was a familiar stubbornness, but not one Elliot welcomed right now.

Seeing Irene’s body wasn’t going to be good for London, at least in Elliot’s opinion, but he knew his partner well enough to know that in this – unlike most things – London didn’t give a damn about what Elliot thought.

He wished the recording had been enough. He’d played it for London, letting the Consulting Criminal listen from the moment it had started, with Elliot calling the police, until they’d managed to haul London outside and the audio had devolved into a nearly incomprehensible babble of voices and sirens.

London had listened in impassive silence, barely reacting to the sound of Irene’s voice or Mary’s, somewhat startled by the gunshots – even though Elliot had known to turn the volume down – and more surprised by Alexandre’s voice.

Elliot had explained about that, how Mary had located and freed Alexandre and told him where London was, aware that he hadn’t done a particularly good job of keeping his tone neutral.

Mary was the reason London had needed Alexandre’s help in the first place.

She’d left him, barely conscious and bleeding from head wounds, in a building burning down around him.

Elliot took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself to nod and hating his inability to deny the Consulting Criminal anything.

“Fine,” he said, against his better judgment. “Okay.”

He helped London up, making sure the IV line wouldn’t catch on anything. It was a small mercy that he was off most of the monitors, save for the heart rate monitors at night. The IV was still necessary – he wasn’t able to drink nearly as much as he needed, and ate even less, so that the sunken look to his cheeks wasn’t just an illusion cast by the black circles around his eyes.

Still, Elliot told himself, London was stronger with each passing day – strong enough to have made it down to the morgue by himself once already.

Hopefully strong enough for what he wanted to face down there.

Elliot told the duty nurse they were going for a short walk and led London away, letting the Consulting Criminal hold his arm when there was no one else to see. Molly was waiting for them in the morgue, looking nervous, and as displeased as Elliot felt.

He was grateful she was there, rather than one of the other pathologists, and grateful she’d left them alone in London’s room so Elliot could explain what had happened. He wondered if she’d called Alexander, because he couldn’t believe London’s brother wouldn’t want to know if London visited, but maybe there were some rules she was willing to bend.

He hoped so – fervently – because the last thing London needed right now was his brother intruding.

As smart as Alexander was, he was never smart enough to leave things alone when it came to his baby brother.

“Well?” London drawled, arching an eyebrow. Molly looked at Elliot, and he could feel London’s annoyance at that, but he nodded all the same. It helped to think he had some small measure of control over the situation.

“This way,” Molly said, and Elliot caught London rolling his eyes – of course he knew where to go (although privately Elliot was glad for the evidence of his memory working well enough here). They followed behind her, London’s gait still much slower than normal, and slightly shuffling.

It felt strange to return, as if he were living his life on a loop – but the hospital in general had that effect. Elliot set his jaw and bore it; there was only one way through this, no matter how much he disliked it.

Molly pulled the body out and gave Elliot a hesitant look before glancing up at London.

“Just the face,” the Consulting Criminal said stonily, and Elliot didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around the IV pole, knuckles going white, as Molly drew the sheet back. It was a small mercy, Elliot thought, that Molly missed it. By the time she’d straightened again, London had forced himself to relax, staring impassively down at the corpse.

Impassive except for his eyes. They were blazing, accentuated by the dark circles ringing them, shockingly bright against his pale skin.

Elliot had seen that expression once before. After Wales, when they’d gotten the results of his shoulder x-ray back.

He’d misread it then.

It was harder to misjudge now.

“Do you want me to–” Molly began, gesturing to the door.

“No,” London said coldly. “I’ve seen enough.”

The doctor nodded, giving Molly an apologetic glance. It was hardly abnormal for London to be so abrupt, but Elliot felt a bit guilty all the same.

“Thanks,” he said, and she nodded silently, busying herself with covering the body back up as Elliot followed London out of the room.

They went back to the ward in silence – a couple of times, Elliot wondered if he should say something, but even if he’d known what, London’s expression would have stopped him.

He recognized London keeping it together with a lot of effort, and didn’t want to be the final straw that snapped his self-control.

It was the rattle of the IV stand that tipped him off; Elliot was in the middle of the familiar act of pulling the privacy curtain closed when he heard metal against metal and turned to London folding in on himself, one hand closed around the IV stand for support, but succeeding only in dragging it down with him.

Elliot had him in under a second, grimacing at the effort of keeping London upright and balancing the IV stand carefully enough with his shoulder that he could push it back up, managing to get one foot on it to keep it stable. Once it was steady, Elliot gave it no more thought, hauling London up right before helping the Consulting Criminal slump onto the bed, alarmed at how badly he was shaking.

He’d gone ashen, the same white shade as the sheets, what was visible of his forehead suddenly beaded with sweat, his breath coming in shallow gasps. One hand fumbled for Elliot’s, and Elliot took it instinctively, squeezing hard, nodding and wondering how well London could see him right now.

“Sit back, that’s it, head down, knees up, right, just like that,” he said, recognizing the sudden symptoms for what they were – this wasn’t some pent up emotional reaction, or at least not entirely.

He should have known better, insisted London use a wheelchair for his second excursion to the morgue. The Consulting Criminal had jumped abruptly from being almost entirely bed-bound to taking two trips up and down the hospital within the span of an hour.

Add to that the little London had eaten that day, let alone the past week, and it was no wonder he’d gone into shock.

“Breathe, Holmes, slow deep breaths. With me. All right?” London managed a nod, and Elliot slowed his breathing, making it exaggerated and audible, nodding encouragingly as London tried to match it, still shivering. Elliot managed to get him under some blankets, rubbing his hands and arms for increased circulation as he kept a sharp eye on his partner.

Relief trickled in as London’s breathing began to slow, the panicked look ebbing from his features. Elliot kept up his slow breathing until he was sure London was out of danger, before he let himself relax very carefully, on alert for any changes.

London kept hold of Elliot’s hands, grip weaker than it had been, but just as unwilling to let go.

“I want to get out of here,” he muttered miserably.

“I know” Elliot said.

London met his gaze, surprise flickering through tired grey eyes, and Elliot nodded, running a thumb over his partner’s knuckles.

He wondered if London caught the thought on his features but didn’t care; he wanted all of this behind them – Irene, Mary, the memory tests, the scans, the visits, the flood of flowers and good wishes from people Elliot thought had never even met them.

He probably couldn’t get away from all of it, not yet.

But at very least, they could walk away from Irene.

He’d be happy to never look back.

He wondered how often London would.

Maybe not as often as you think, he told himself, remembering the look in London’s eyes in the morgue, and in the doctor’s office early that spring.

Anything else London might have felt for her didn’t outweigh the memory of Wales. It probably never would, Elliot realized, even with her dead.

“I think it’s a bloody brilliant idea,” Elliot said, catching the edge in his voice, unable to dampen it. “Let’s go home.”

London was kept there for two more days, but London saw to it that it was only two more days. He requested a notebook from a bemused Elliot, and wrote out the idiotic memory prompt again and again until he could recite it at will – and did so for any medical professional who came through his door.

It became so entrenched in his mind that he dreamed about it, the words floating on a loop through his mind, accompanied by their images, interspersed with the blue swirls and symbols from the tunnels, which he now knew were related to Georges Alexandre's latest novel and – by design – to his abduction.

The list of instructions the neurologist gave Elliot was almost as long as London’s arm, and the Consulting Criminal was under very strict orders to listen to Elliot, both as a doctor and as his partner, and to comply with all of the neurologist’s conditions.

It was ridiculously evident that Elliot (and Alexander, but frankly, who cared about him?) expected London not to behave himself. If this had only been some physical injury, he would have been inclined to disregard medical advice – doctors were, after all, notoriously overcautious.

But this was his mind, pieces of which still lay in scattered fragments, refusing his attempts to put them back together. Elliot insisted this was normal, but London wasn’t normal. He was a genius. He had honed his mind to perfection, trained his body to listen to it, rather than the other way around.

And now his body was far too much in charge, trapping him in this weakened, encumbered cage, and he couldn’t even turn to the sharpness of his mind as a consolation.

No matter how many times he listened to the recording he’d made – when Elliot was asleep, because the doctor clearly had issues with the Consulting Criminal revisiting this information – he couldn’t bring his mind to recall the actual events.

At least he’d been able to order them in his memory, though. He knew step-by-step what had happened, despite that knowledge being second hand.

He’d had the foresight to collect the data for himself, even if he hadn’t anticipated this outcome.

Elliot was adamant that London’s memory was improving and his observational skills were as sharp as ever – London still doubted the former but the latter was obvious, and he grew tired of Elliot trying to stop him from reading everyone’s tells and hidden secrets. It gave him something to do during the tedious stay, especially when his father and Alexander insisted on imposing themselves on him.

Besides, some of the medical staff enjoyed it, and set little challenges for him.

The day they finally released him, they took his bandages off nearly permanently. The neurologist, after much debate, gave him permission to travel from the hospital to Baker Street without any bandages whatsoever. He would have to wear them – albeit not such a thick helmet – for another week, at which time she warned him she would see how the wound was healing.

Elliot was developing a nurse’s skill set as well.

As useful as that was, it was also somewhat inconvenient, particularly when Elliot banded together with the nurses to insist London use a wheelchair when being discharged. Apparently, he was not to be trusted to walk long distances on his own – if the ward to the street counted as a long distance – but he acquiesced after only a cursory resistance, because it meant getting out of the blasted hospital and home faster.

Stepping into the house was like a cool breeze on a sweltering day; the world seemed to right itself a bit, tension he hadn’t been aware of and didn’t want seeping away. Once inside, he allowed Elliot to help him up the stairs; there had been no question of walking from the cab to the door on his own. One never knew who was watching (namely Alexander), and it was bad enough he still had a lighter bandage wrapped around his head and these persistent black eyes.

He wasn’t about to let any more weakness show than necessary.

But the stairs were daunting and he was breathing heavily when they reached their apartment, small silver spots dancing around the edges of his vision. Elliot was irritatingly attuned to this, and got London lying down on the couch while he puttered around, opening windows and unpacking their accumulated belongings from the hospital. Mercifully, none of the flowers or cards had come home with them.

No intrusions from strangers into their lives.

Just the two of them against the rest of the world.

As it should be.

The Consulting Criminal traced a hand idly over the wallpaper just behind the couch, mapping its patterns with his fingertips. Linking some of the hazy images from his dreams in the hospital to reality. There was no concrete floor here – that had been at the old power station, one of the few bits of information he had from that night. Not an entirely useless piece of data, but floating free, untethered to anything else.

Elliot (and the neurologist, whom London supposed must have some degree of expertise) had told him not to force it. Most of the memories from that night wouldn’t come back, Elliot said. 

Very common for serious concussions. 

A defensive mechanism in the brain.

Fine, London thought, fingers still weaving along the lines and curves of the wallpaper. It made some kind of basic biological sense. He would have conceded that, if it had only been that.

There was no reason for the rest of the memory loss, though. The last test had been nearly normal. Nearly normal. He sneered lightly, disdaining the words.

He was not nearly normal. No reason his mind should be.

No reason to let him down like this, to drop information unexpectedly and without cause.

It would take time, Elliot said.

It had become Elliot’s favorite refrain.

He didn’t have time for it to take time – life didn’t stop or slow down at his whims, no matter how inconsiderate that was. He had only a finite amount of time (although perhaps not, one never knew). No need to waste it trying to cajole his brain back into working properly.

“Tea or coffee?” Elliot asked, poking his head out of the kitchen, and London remembered that. He hadn’t been allowed any in the hospital – a minor form of torture, in his opinion – but at home there appeared to be different rules.

A whole host of different rules.

They settled into a new routine, enforced by Elliot, which London hated. No experiments. No touching his chemicals or equipment whatsoever, even under strict observation. Elliot pointed out, correctly, that he didn’t know enough to supervise the Consulting Criminal properly, so his experiments were off-limits altogether.

He was allowed to take cases if he wasn’t alone – and being alone never happened. If Elliot had to leave the apartment for any length of time, London had an array of minders: Cruz, Dimmock, Molly. Carlton and Alexander were permitted visits, but mercifully not left in charge. Elliot had set some vague and arbitrary rules about when London wasn’t allowed clients: if he was too tired, too moody, too out-of-sorts.

None of those categories meant anything – he was bored and bored of waiting for his memory to improve, convinced the tiny, incremental progress Elliot insisted he was seeing was only the doctor’s delusional, hopeful thinking.

It was taking too long and London chafed under it, resentful of the effort and of being so overshadowed and of the fact that Elliot was right, both about the limits the doctor had set and the slow return of his faculties.

It made Elliot unhappy too. It hardly took an observational genius to see that, but it rooted itself somewhere in London where he couldn’t dislodge it, no matter the rationalizations he applied to it.

Of course it was difficult for Elliot. He had suffered through nine unpleasant but necessary months thinking London was dead. Elliot had spent four days in Wales afraid he might never see the Consulting Criminal again. Elliot was a trained physician who understand the impact severe concussions could have. 

Elliot had helped save him from a fire.

All of those things were true, yet somehow knowing them didn’t help diffuse the tension.

So London tried his best and listened (mostly) even when he didn’t want to.

If he’d had the energy, and a point of comparison, he might have charted the effects trying and listening had in this situation. But there was no control – even another patient with a severe concussion (which he could find; NHS records were not that hard to access, particularly when one had Alexander as a brother), it wouldn’t be the same. He would need someone at the same intellectual level, which was unlikely – although the idea of bashing his older brother on the head was often appealing.

It was terrifying to be so much at the mercy of a mercurial memory, but he said nothing about it, absolutely nothing, to Elliot, because London hated the anxiety it caused, the way Elliot’s muscles would tense, drawing taut lines down his neck, doubtlessly irritating his recently re-injured shoulder.

It was obvious anyway. He knew it was. It was never with the clients or the deductions. Those came naturally, like water spilling through a breach in a dam. He didn’t need to control them, didn’t need to think about them – they were just there, like blaring adverts announcing the stupid secrets and petty problems they all had, which they wouldn’t have if they just paid attention for five minutes.

He knew it pleased Elliot, too, to see this evidence of recovery. Or perhaps evidence that part of him had not been lost in that space of a few, fragile seconds.

He was still a genius.

And that genius was suddenly failing him in baffling and utterly pedestrian ways.

The Consulting Criminal was in the kitchen one morning, his body having taken him there out of habit, and then habit evaporated, leaving him standing at the counter, staring at the cupboards, utterly at a loss. The kettle had boiled, but London didn’t remember the next steps, completely stymied by a simple task he couldn’t recall.

Then Elliot came into the kitchen, took his hand and guided it to a cupboard handle and then, then London remembered – or his body did – and he went through the motions: mugs, tea bags, sugar, spoons, milk from the fridge.

More than once, he’d found himself on the stairs, uncertain if he was coming or going, or even if he’d just been going downstairs to Mrs. Hanson’s old apartment. Each time, he’d climb back up to their apartment and keep silent about it, although Elliot so obviously knew and didn’t want to push it – and London hated that, he wanted to be prodded and pestered until he just bloody well remembered whatever he’d meant to do and could get on with it.

He tried not to think, a perplexing task, appalled at the way conscious thought threatened to derail the whole process. The effort became too much, wearing him down, the same way having a constant watchful presence was, preventing him from working properly, from thinking, suffocating him with careful evaluation, with well intentioned questions, with questions withheld under the same misguided good intentions, stripping Baker Street away from him until it threatened to stop being home, to become a prison of other people and his own mind, until one day, one day, when Cruz had to leave early, shortly before Elliot returned from a meeting with Alexander, London had a temporary reprieve in which he was by himself, was only himself, could do whatever he wanted, so he took his keys and left, heading for Regent’s Park, intent on being back before Elliot returned.

He could do it.

It was a brilliant plan, a victim-less crime, and no one would be any the wiser. A few moments freedom, to be utterly and completely himself again (although without a case, which was a shame, but twenty minutes for a case with legwork was cutting it close, even for him), unfettered by his patchy memory, by Elliot’s tension, by anyone else’s watchful eye.

It would have been flawless. 

It would have worked.

If he hadn’t forgotten how to get back home.

If Elliot had to pick one worst day, this was probably it.

He’d just stepped inside the apartment – hadn’t even had time to call out a hello that would have gone unanswered – when the phone rang. London and Cruz were probably just out somewhere, and London had been seized by a rare fit of generosity and decided to let Elliot know.

“Holmes,” he said, forcing his tone to light and unconcerned, gripping the banister so hard with his free hand his knuckles went white.

“Elliot,” London replied, and there was a tension in his voice that made Elliot set his jaw, anxiety tightening his back and shoulders.

“What is it?” Elliot asked, heart hammering, trying to convince himself that everything was fine, absolutely fine, that London had gone out on some case with Cruz, that he was calling only because he was annoyed Elliot hadn’t magically known and shown up on his own.

There was a pause, too long to be natural, the anxiety of it making Elliot’s lungs constrict. He was just about to prompt his partner for a reply when London spoke, quietly and reluctantly.

“I don’t know where I am.”

The world narrowed, concentrating itself solely on the sound of London’s voice, on the pounding pulse in Elliot’s ears.

“Where–” he started to ask, then stopped himself, cursing the stupidity of the question. “Do you remember what direction you went?”

There was a huff on the other end of the line, almost typically London, Elliot thought.

“I’m in a park.”

“Regent’s Park?” Elliot demanded.

There was a pause, before London cleared his throat quietly.

“Yes. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I– don’t recall it taking long to get here. And I only had a twenty minute window before you returned home.”

Elliot let out a deep sigh, relaxing only minutely.

“Then probably yeah. What do you see? Close by.”

“There are people,” London replied dryly. “And trees.”

Elliot set his jaw, fingers tightening on the phone as angry retorts lined up on his tongue. A bird’s eye view of the park flashed across his mind, well over a hundred hectares of green space full of trees and people.

Somewhere in the midst of that was his partner and best friend, lost and alone.

And Mary was still out there.

“Holm–”

“And a waterfall.”

Elliot let out a harsh breath he hadn’t known he was holding, not caring if London heard it over the phone.

There was only place that fit that description, and it wasn’t too far.

“Okay,” Elliot said, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to think past the panic. "I’m coming to get you. Stay where you are. Don’t leave with anyone else.”

“Obviously,” London drawled, and Elliot repressed a sigh because he could hear the undercurrent of uncertainty, and starting a fight wouldn’t do any good.

“Talk to me, can you tell me anything else before I leave?” Elliot said instead, needing to distract London as much as he needed to distract himself. “Tell me about the people you can see. Give me their life’s stories.”

That would keep London occupied while giving Elliot a better sense of his situation – if there was anyone suspicious – Mary or any of her people – London would pick up on it. They needed to take any advantage they had right now; the thought of London back in the hospital, or worse, made it difficult to see properly.

Elliot sucked in a deep breath, repressing that fear mercilessly, and focused on his partner’s voice and on getting to him.

London had rattled off deductions in his ear, Elliot hummed responses and asked questions here and there, trying not to waste too much of his breath on conversation.

With all the information London could give him, Elliot hung up the phone, quickly made his way downstairs, stopping for two cups of coffee before heading to where he hoped the Consulting Criminal was waiting for him.

The flood of pedestrians around Baker Street and Regent’s Park set him on edge in a way it never had before – Elliot was as used to dodging tourists and school groups as any other local, but he felt wedged behind them today, every cluster or more than two people slowing him down, fanning a low burning resentment. He set his jaw, forcing himself to focus on London’s voice while moving as fast as he could, each step somehow taking an unnecessarily long time.

It took less than fifteen minutes but it could have been an eternity, made better only by the constant sound of London’s voice repeating itself in his ear. 

The Consulting Criminal was exactly where Elliot thought, grey eyes tracking his progress intently – probably anyone else would have read it as impatience, but Elliot knew his partner better than that. Impatient was London’s default state of being, but this had a hefty dose of fear and uncertainty mixed in, and no small amount of vulnerability.

He let out a sigh, consciously relaxing his shoulders, and closed the remaining distance between them, forcing a small smile.

“Hi,” Elliot said, faking a casual tone and half wondering how he was pulling it off. “Sorry I took so long. I brought coffee.”

London took the coffee readily, but Elliot didn’t miss the way his partner’s hands trembled, ever so slightly, as he closed his fingers around the cup.

Elliot sat down next to him, feeling caught in a maelstrom of tension and relief – both his and London’s – as they sat silently, sipping coffee and pretending to the rest of the world that absolutely nothing was wrong.

“Good day?” London asked, and Elliot heard the steadiness in his voice, the indifference to a subject he only cared about because it pertained to Elliot – and he knew the tone was deliberate. It was only slightly too brittle for London, who would normally ask that question in a wearied drawl, less interested in Elliot’s response than in a way of breaking up his own boredom.

“Yeah, fine thanks,” Elliot replied, keeping his own tone hearty, a smile on his face. “Any clients today?”

“No,” London replied. Elliot wondered if that were true – London rarely went a day without clients. But occasionally he went a day without bothering to see clients, too wrapped up in something else.

Of course, without his experiments, there probably wasn’t anything else demanding his attention, unless he’d been composing.

They sat for a few minutes in what would pass for companionable silence to anyone else, then Elliot nodded, clapping a hand on his knee.

“Right. Shall we go?”

“Yes,” London hissed emphatically, the word almost lost against the rim of his coffee cup.

Elliot led him back through the park, aware of the tension pouring off of the Consulting Criminal as he kept step with Elliot but utterly dependent on the doctor for direction.

The tension dissipated suddenly and Elliot heard London whisper a quiet “oh”, relief washing through the doctor as London abruptly remembered where he was and how to get home from there. Silently and without really trying, Elliot passed the lead to the Consulting Criminal, letting him get them back to Baker Street.

Upstairs, he made London sit through a quick medical evaluation, checking the responsiveness of his pupils, taking his pulse, quizzing London on his memory prompt from the hospital, which visibly annoyed the Consulting Criminal, but at least he answered. London suffered through it with glowers and huffs but no more strenuous protests, and Elliot was glad he didn’t have to channel his old rugby and army skills because he really wasn’t above pinning his partner down right now, and not in an enjoyable way.

“Tea,” Elliot said once he’d finished, more of a pronouncement than a question. London nodded, fidgeting slightly, but stayed seated on the couch when Elliot gave him a warning look. The doctor went into the kitchen, trying not to stalk, and flipped on the faucet, taking a moment for a long, deep breath, fingers curling around the edge of the counter.

Right, he told himself, giving one firm, curt nod, ignoring the faint tremors he could feel in his hands. Right. It’s fine. It’s all fine.

He pulled down two mugs, filled the kettle and switched it on, then bent double over the sink, gripping the edges of the metal basin, sucking in harsh breaths through his teeth.

He was not having a panic attack, he told himself. He really wasn’t. He just had to get himself back under control. Just needed to convince his body that everything was fine. And he could do it, he absolutely could, he just needed a bit of time and to concentrate, not to breathe so quickly despite the fact that his body was screaming for oxygen he knew it was getting.

It’s fine, he told himself again, somehow managing a shaky, baffled laugh because it so clearly wasn’t and if London were there, he’d point out how ridiculous conclusion was, based entirely on false premises, and London was there, Elliot reminded himself, he was and he was fine, or would be fine, everything would be fine–

And then London was there, solid and real, looming in the kitchen doorway, presence filling the room, accented by an undercurrent of his cologne and the smell of water, which was still pouring from the tap.

“Elliot?”

“Oh Christ,” Elliot managed, and folded in on himself, sinking to the floor, one hand gripping the counter as if it might keep him up, or perhaps as some sort of lifeline. London had crossed the kitchen and crouched down in front of Elliot almost before he was aware of moving, far more focused on his partner’s body than his own. Elliot was breathing hard – too hard, beginning to hyperventilate, shoulders heaving, hands shaking visibly.

“Elliot–”

He was cut off when Elliot threw his arms around London’s shoulders and crushed the Consulting Criminal to him, fingers digging almost painfully into his back. London blinked, mind stuttering maddeningly under the shock, and he nearly pulled away, alarmed, when Elliot’s gasping breaths dissolved very suddenly to sobs.

He managed to get his arms around Elliot in return, holding on tightly and wincing against the strength in Elliot’s grip. Surely no one shaking that hard should be able to hold on so tightly, but Elliot clung to him as if letting go meant plummeting to his death – although maybe, to Elliot, it did right now.

“It’s all right,” London said, which only served to worsen Elliot’s anguish, nearly dragging them both down before London could steady them, muscles in his legs burning with the effort of keeping them steady and crouched.

He bit his lip against any more useless platitudes and rubbed Elliot’s back, trying to give his partner some grounding in reality, some voiceless reassurance, as his mind spun, prodded on by itself, trying to devise a solution. Should he call 999? Was it possible to induce a seizure or dislocate a joint this way? How long could someone sustain this kind of hyperventilation before losing consciousness? Was cerebral hypoxia a concern?

He wanted to ask Elliot, because under normal circumstances he would, but he couldn’t now, and his training with the dead eclipsed his experience with the living, leaving him at a loss for what to do other than to let Elliot cling to him, sobbing. He’d never encountered a reaction this severe, even after rescuing clients from the brink of death.

Even after faking his own suicide, having trusted himself to a fall from several stories, when his life had seemed to slip away from him, tumbling into nothing until he’d hit the safety net, and everything had snapped, abruptly but also delayed, leaving him curled up in a fetal position that night on the floor at Alexander’s, entirely expecting to die just from the shock of it.

London braced himself carefully, able to rock Elliot slightly, wondering if it helped at all – certainly there must be something behind it, some vestigial connection to infancy, but if it made any difference, it wasn’t obvious; Elliot clutched at him, face buried against London’s neck.

Guilt settled in the Consulting Criminal's stomach, spreading outward in rapidly growing tendrils until it constricted his lungs. This was his fault – if only he’d listened and not wandered off, if only he’d programmed their address into his Mind Palace so as to be able to retrace his steps… If only he’d stopped to think, the one thing at which he truly excelled, that set him apart from the seething mass of humanity with whom he had to share the city, then he wouldn’t have sent Elliot spiraling over this cliff, terror swallowing the reality that London was fine (now), that nothing untoward had befallen him.

“It’s all right,” he murmured again, not intending to speak the words, but recognizing them as echoes of how Elliot had reassured him in the hospital, when he’d been untethered from everything but Elliot, convinced he’d slipped back into the drugs, or simply unaware of anything that had happened at all.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Elliot repeated, voice almost weary, and London nodded, hesitantly. Elliot gave a short, barking laugh, looking away again as if it would provide him with whatever answers he was looking for. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes,” London said, on the basis that it was both true and probably the right answer.

“Christ,” Elliot said, dropping his head back to rest against a cupboard door, covering his face with his hands.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Elliot asked, raising his head again. A small, wry smile quirked the corners of his lips and he shook his head once.“How do you not know?” he asked, the words dragging London back immediately, the way Elliot so obviously knew they would. “Christ, how do you not know?”

Fingers closed around London’s wrists before shifting upward to grip his hands.

“Was this the first time you went out on your own?” Elliot asked.

“Yes,” London replied. Blue eyes raked over his features, and the Consulting Criminal let Elliot see the truth to that statement.

“Until now, you’ve listened to everything I said? Done what I’ve told you and what the neurologist told you?”

“Yes,” London said again. “Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Elliot echoed. “But nothing like this.”

“No.”

Elliot laughed again, that harsh, unpleasant laugh, sitting forward, forcing London back onto his heels.

“Holmes, you’re a bloody observational genius. You’re phenomenally brilliant at it but Christ are you bloody blind and thick when it comes to yourself. You wandered off by yourself today and got lost – despite having enough sense to call me - how do you not understand how this makes me feel?”

London blinked, startled by the sudden turn in the conversation, and Elliot seized the moment, cutting London off before he’d had the chance to draw a breath to speak.

“This is the first time you’ve been out on your own? The first? I expected you to have done it the day after we got home! Do you think I want this, Holmes? Do you think I want to tell you that you can’t do all the things that make you you, that you can’t do your experiments and set fire to the kitchen or that you can’t run off at a moment’s notice after some bad guy, leaving me to catch up, trusting – no, just knowing that you can do it, that you won’t – I don’t know, somehow break in the middle of all it and forget what to do and get lost – or worse?”

He sucked in a hard breath, shaking his head when London opened his mouth to speak.

“Mary did this to you. She set you up to fake your own death to get rid of James, she played myself and your brother, and then she did this – she took you away from yourself, and you think I’m angry at you?”

“Elliot–”

“Do you think I don’t worry every goddamn day that your memory won’t come back fully? That you won’t be the way you used to be? London, for god’s sake, I want you to be breaking these stupid rules! I want you to give us all the slip and end up brilliantly solving some amazing case – I want you to figure out where a kidnapped French author is when no one else can bloody find him and storm in and save the day – and you did save him and you were brilliant and don’t you understand that she left you bleeding from your head in a burning building? She left you to die and you think I’m angry because you took a little walk?”

“She didn’t–” London began.

“She did,” Elliot snarled. “You were in her way and she got you out of it and it could have killed you.” He paused, muscles in his jaw jumping, blue eyes blazing.

“She tried to take you from me. I cannot, you cannot, let that happen. Again.”

It finally clicked, all of it, the last sentence linking everything in a way that should have been obvious – would have been obvious if he’d been in full command of his faculties, no, that wasn’t true because his observational skills were fine.

Obvious to everyone else.

Not obvious to him.

“How can someone so bloody smart be so bloody stupid at the same time?” Elliot asked, but there was a fondness underlying his words, one that made London’s lips curl into the ghost of a smile. Elliot pulled away carefully, London meeting his gaze squarely if somewhat hesitantly. “How do you not know?”

“I–” The Consulting Criminal began before words failed him, stopping him from saying he understood. Elliot huffed quietly, pulling him into another hug; bewildered, London tried to comprehend what Elliot had said.

Not the words, but the depth of them.

He should have known.

He should have realized it ages ago.

He should have.

But didn't.

And it scared him.

London had accepted that as fact, but it hadn’t occurred to him precisely what Elliot had meant then – not other potential partners, because the Consulting Criminal had never had any interest in that beyond Elliot and couldn’t actually fathom ever doing so – but to those who wanted to challenge his brilliance, to play with, or perhaps against, the world’s only Consulting Criminal.

He understood Mary as much as he’d understood any of his opponents, as much as James or the Woman. Not in precisely the same way, because the connection wasn’t really there, or wasn’t really the same.

James was like him on levels that transcended rationality and stirred no small amount of unease when London thought about it. James had been bored, desperate for distraction in a world that didn’t understand him, couldn’t keep up with him, and the Woman–

The Woman, London understood her as deeply as James because she wanted the same things, but where James wanted distraction, she wanted connection, and London knew that feeling too, to the very core of him, but he’d meant it, every syllable, when he told Elliot he’d never been wanting for anything else.

She’d found him after he’d already found it, before he’d had it fully but knowing it was there, and taking it utterly for granted.

Mary, on the other hand.

London understood the practicality, the necessary mathematics. Elliot did, too, in his own way – he was a trained surgeon and a former soldier. The decisions that had to be made in hard, bloody moments were as calculated as those London made, the ones that made him seem cold to people who operated entirely on sentiment, but that were balanced, considered, logical.

She’d had no real ill-will toward him, but no warmth either.

He’d simply been in her way, then he hadn’t.

And, he realized abruptly, that was precisely what the Woman had done to them with Wales.

London had been in her way to Alexander, and Elliot had been in her way to London. She’d needed something and found the simplest, most effective way of getting it.

Separating London from Alexander, and Elliot from London.

The calculation hadn’t been as cold, he knew that, but perhaps it didn’t matter.

Mary had made the same calculation and come to a conclusion with which Elliot would never, ever agree.

Elliot drew away gently, resting his forehead against London’s, hands on his shoulders.

“She doesn’t get to make that decision,” he said. “She doesn’t have the right. No one does. Okay?”

London’s lips twitched and he managed a tiny nod without displacing his partner, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly, re-committing Elliot’s smell to his somewhat erratic memory, storing it where he knew it could never get lost, in the sprawling rooms dedicated entirely to him.

“Okay,” he agreed.

The next day, after London had proved multiple times to Elliot that their address was programmed into his Mind Palace and written down on a piece of paper placed in his jacket pocket, Elliot took them to the very heart of Central London, with its masses of people who made the narrow web of streets even more labyrinthine and complex.

The doctor's reasoning was entirely evident, but Elliot felt the need to explain anyway, accompanied by a slightly apologetic shrug and a hint to his stance that he wasn't changing his mind.

"We can have a bit of a wander," Elliot said. "You can update things."

It was a decent day for it, at least; the drizzling rain – too light to do any real damage, particularly to London's slowly growing hair, his stitches and clothing – kept some of the crowds indoors, especially the tourists. Londoners occasionally sought shelter under their uniform black umbrellas as they scurried past, although most decided to forgo those in favor of easy navigation through the crowds.

London he felt like he stuck out more than he likely did; under normal circumstances, he would have welcomed the attention (he wouldn't admit it out loud, but Elliot seemed to know anyway), but the persistent black eyes, which were slow to fade, made him self-conscious. He loathed the sunken appearance they gave him, the way people looked at him, alarmed or pitying.

He half wished it were cold enough for his coat and wet enough for an umbrella. The combination of blacks would make him nearly invisible in the sea of people, but the rain had the effect of diverting people's attention anyway.

There was nothing for it – his mental map did need updating and reinforcing, and Elliot wasn't about to acquiesce and just let them go home. 

Not after yesterday.

Nor did London wish to be at the mercy of his mind like that again. The neurologist had told him that resuming his regular routine was the best treatment for him now – which was difficult, because he'd always disdained routine. It smacked of apathy, of being content in not thinking, and he avoided it at all costs.

It also helped keep his opponents from getting too close, from predicting his behavior.

But of course, he told himself, that had happened anyway.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, alert to any change in Elliot's presence that would indicate his partner had picked up on that momentary discomfort. He didn't want Elliot guessing the truth, but more so, he didn't want Elliot attributing it to him having lost his way.

Which did happen, more than once. Each time, Elliot would pause and let London regain his bearings, even if it meant retracing their winding steps until something clicked, realigning him with the city streets. Only once did he have to ask Elliot which way to turn, less for direction and more because his mind had turned suddenly indecisive, leaving him unable to choose.

Elliot had guided them to the right, and had let London take charge again from there.

The Consulting Criminal kept them out for over two hours, wandering with only an eventual goal in mind: Baker Street. They revisited some areas a few times, bypassing others altogether on the basis that they looked boring to London. He memorized the pattern of streets and their character wherever they went, paying attention to the subtle shifts in feel and detail far more so than the more evident ones, able to pinpoint the moment they stepped into the one-kilometer radius he considered the core of his territory.

Still, London didn't lead them straight home, but took the opportunity to reconnoiter a bit more, to ensure the area was as familiar to him as the rooms at Baker Street. He took them on a winding route but avoided the park, not entirely comfortable to subjecting himself or Elliot to that again so soon.

It felt like a victory, turning the corner, their apartment in view and only a short walk away. The sight of it made Elliot grin, amplifying London's triumph, sparking a smugness that he really had no right to feel, because he hadn't done anything especially spectacular – but he didn't care one whit.

His mind had abandoned him yesterday, leaving him helpless and defenseless, utterly reliant on someone else, the way he had been from the moment Mary had struck him.

Today it was his again – patchy, yes, and still not strong enough to be completely trustworthy, but for those moments he had Elliot, and he had the knowledge that he had wrestled his life back under his control, that anyone standing in his way was nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle and could not take his mind from him, not fully and never more than temporarily, that he was really himself again.

And that Elliot was there, always.

Just the two of them, against the rest of the world.

As it should be.

It was unfortunate, then, that his brother had chosen that precise day – that precise moment – to insinuate himself, utterly uninvited and unbearably smug, into their apartment.

Elliot supposed that, one day, it might stop surprising him when Alexander simply appeared out of the blue, unhampered by things like locks or laws, making himself at home and somehow managing to broadcast a superior attitude that chided them for keeping him waiting.

One day.

But not today.

And not because he'd clearly helped himself to the unopened packet of biscuits Elliot had bought just the other day, or the way he'd commandeered one of Mrs. Hanson's best tea cups and saucers to enjoy a cuppa while seated in his brother's chair – or even really the fact that he'd waltzed in while they were away, as if he had the right.

Today it was the large dog, dark brown fur deepening to black around the ears and snout – possibly a German shepherd, Elliot thought – sitting next to him, ears perked up when Elliot and London came in, watching them with a disconcertingly alert expression.

The Consulting Criminal shut down the way Elliot expected him to, the way he always did when his brother showed up unexpectedly, that familiar defensiveness made even worse by his partner's heightened awareness of his own vulnerability.

Elliot had no doubt Alexander knew what had happened yesterday in the park. That the timing of his visit was no coincidence.

If he knew it, then London knew it.

It was the last thing either of them needed, especially after such a good day – Elliot had felt London really being himself again, rebuilding a crumbled confidence that he hadn't ever fully admitted to. It had been working – it had worked, Elliot had felt the shift in his partner today more so than any other day, including when they'd come home from the hospital.

And here was Alexander, ready and utterly able to dismantle that within seconds.

Without thinking about it, Elliot stepped forward, half in front of the younger Holmes, subjecting the older Holmes to a hard captain's glare, the expression turning stonier when Alexander met his gaze levelly, as if he were an interesting laboratory specimen or an unexpected insect.

"There are laws about private property," Elliot said. "And you're not the one who's friends with the police."

"He's not friends with anyone," London comment, voice flat, and under other circumstances, Elliot might have smiled.

Not today. Not after the progress London had just made, that hadn't had time to sink in, cement itself.

"Quite right, brother mine" Alexander said, irritatingly unperturbed by what to anyone else would have been a pointed insult. "I do, however, have family that I'm inclined to think fondly of, from time to time. And to be responsible for, all of the time."

"I don't need your protection," London snapped, and Elliot hated the imbalance there, the way it reverted two adult men back to childhood, when the ten-year age gap meant something, when London – probably as intractable as a child as he was now – needed that kind of supervision.

"And I'm not here to provide it," Alexander replied with unflappable equanimity. "Beyond what I've already put in place, of course."

London bristled – Elliot could see it and feel it, and tried to subdue his own exasperated reaction. Alexander always had some kind of surveillance on his little brother, he reminded himself. It didn't really help knowing that Alexander's watchful eyes were probably more necessary now than normal. Mary was still out there, and Elliot wasn't about to trust that she'd leave well enough alone.

"I came to see how you're getting on," Alexander continued.

"Can't count on your spies to report that accurately?" London snapped.

"You're my brother," Alexander sighed, rolling his eyes. "I'd rather see for myself."

"And now you've seen," London said shortly. Alexander studied him neutrally, gave a small nod, and turned his gaze to Elliot.

The doctor crossed his arms, unconsciously adjusting himself into a more military stance, arching an eyebrow.

"Your opinion as a medical professional, Elliot?"

"He's improving exactly as he should be," Elliot replied.

Alexander sighed quietly, setting his teacup aside.

"Despite the incident yesterday?"

Elliot caught the way London's hands curled into fists but ignored it, keeping his gaze on Alexander.

"Yes. If there's anything we think you need to know, we'll tell you. Otherwise, leave it to the professionals."

This time, the expression Elliot caught out the corner of his eye was one of suppressed triumph; he saw his partner's lips curl slightly, almost immediately smothered back to an annoyed glare aimed at Alexander, and hoped that London took this – as much as everything Elliot had said yesterday – as evidence that he was firmly and unquestioningly always on his side.

Alexander studied Elliot for a moment, and the doctor refused to back down, feeling a stab of success when the older Holmes brother acquiesced with a faint nod.

"Far be it for me to question your expertise," he said.

"Yet you always do," London muttered under his breath, and Alexander slid his gaze levelly back to his brother.

"I do also have a gift for you, one the hospital was unwilling to permit me." He reached over to pat the dog's head, and its tail picked up, thumping hopefully against the floor.

"I don't want it," London said shortly.

Alexander sighed again, leaning forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

"Her," he said. "And of course you do."

"Absolutely not," London retorted, at the same time as Elliot asked "Why are you so sure he'd want it?"

"Because he spent his entire childhood pestering our father for a dog," Alexander replied. "Our father is, unfortunately for London, allergic. He did have a succession of hamsters and mice, although that's not quite the same, I gather. I was always worried what he could possibly do with them once he got bored. I took comfort in the knowledge that it was also more difficult to involve them in pirate adventures. Still, better a small rodent that's easily caged than a pet with a mind of its own. Or another child."

"What?" Elliot demanded, swinging his gaze to London.

"Oh yes, he was very adamant about wanting a sibling. For several years."

"Oh lord," Elliot muttered, covering his eyes briefly. "You're not going to tell me you've got some secret brother I don't know about. Or sister?"

"No," London said coolly, and Elliot glanced at Alexander, glad when the older Holmes shook his head.

"Happily, our parents had the sense to stop."

"One of Alexander is more than enough. As it was it took them ten years to get over him." London said, and Elliot let himself grin.

"Consider this fulfillment of one childhood dream," Alexander said, refusing to take his brother's bait.

"I don't want it," London repeated.

Alexander sighed heavily, rolling his eyes.

"Why on Earth not?"

"Because you picked it," London said. "You picked that one."

"That one?" Elliot echoed. "What's wrong with that one?"

"It's a Beauceron, Elliot."

He'd been wrong about the breed, but what he knew about dog breeds could probably fit comfortably into a thimble. Elliot shrugged, giving his head a small shake.

"So?" he asked.

"French. Highly intelligent. Notoriously disobedient," London said, fixing Alexander with a dark, penetrative glare.

"She's a gift, brother," Alexander sighed. "Not a criticism. She's also three years old and has been extremely well trained to very exacting standards."

"Three years?" Elliot demanded, seeing the surprised look relax London's features. "Wait. You bought her three years ago? You have been at his house numerous times since then! How did you not notice?"

"In my brother's defense, he wasn't always in the right state of mind. Were you?" Alexander said simply.

Elliot glanced at London, who didn't meet his eyes, gaze still trained intently on his brother.

"She's also familiar with your scent. Has been since she was a puppy."

"How?" Elliot demanded.

"He really ought to take more care with his clothing and where he passes out when staying with me."

London threw up his hands in disgust, then jabbed a finger toward the door.

"Goodbye!" he snapped. Alexander waited a long moment, too long to be comfortable, then rose, gathering his ever-present umbrella.

"It's good to see you looking better," he said. 

"Goodbye!" London repeated, muscles in his jaw jumping. Elliot crossed the room and opened the door pointedly, giving Alexander a warning look.

"I'll stop in again soon," Alexander said pleasantly, making his way to the door, apparently utterly unconcerned by the death wish his brother was clearly aiming his way.

"Wait," Elliot sighed as Alexander stepped over the threshold. "What's her name."

The older Holmes smiled, a genuine smile with no small hint of glee.

"Eurus," he replied.

Elliot shut the door firmly behind him, throwing the deadbolt audibly, cast a quick glance at London to make sure he wasn't about to find his gun and commit fratricide, then crossed over to the window, watching intently until Alexander left.

"He's gone," he said, turning back and stopping abruptly, startled to find that London had moved to kneel in front of the dog, letting her sniff his hands and lick his face, her tail wagging furiously.

He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and let London have the moment, aware of the brightness in his partner's eyes, the indefinable sensation that mixed hesitancy and wistfulness and relief and joy.

"Hello there," London murmured, scratching behind her ears, and the dog tipped her head back, blissful. "At least my brother had enough sense to name you something that isn't dull."

He glanced up at Elliot as if suddenly remembering the doctor was there, and Elliot couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the edges of his lips.

"She's yours if you really want her," he said, trying for sternness and knowing he'd failed completely. "And you have to take care of her if that is the case."

And he knew as he said it that she'd be London's dog first and foremost if he chose to keep her, but she'd also be their dog, because, when it came down to it, there was no pulling apart their lives that much, no delineating themselves that sharply.

The look London gave him in return told Elliot that the Consulting Criminal was considering keeping the animal.

London spent the better part of the day thinking about it, and Elliot very cautiously let him return to some experiments so he could focus his mind. Composing might have had the same effect, but insisting the Consulting Criminal write music never worked, and he could see his partner itching to possibly cause some minor catastrophe.

He was uneasy about it, but it wasn't fair to keep saying no, and Elliot recognized there would probably never be a single good time to let London start again.

Especially given his tendency to nearly poison them or to start small fires.

But first, Elliot made them head to the shops, where they bought all of the supplies they'd need: a new collar (London had vetoed the one the dog was already wearing), a lead, food, baggies, toys, a bed. She was too big to sleep with either of them.

They took her for a walk, pleasantly surprised at how well behaved she was – but then again, Alexander wasn't the type to invest in half-hearted training. This time, London did take them into the park, both of them hesitant, the dog giving them puzzled looks as if picking up on their reluctance.

But she needed to know the smells in her immediate area, and if London came here with her again, Elliot wanted them both to feel comfortable.

She settled remarkably well into the apartment; they opened all of the doors and let her wander both upstairs and down, making an olfactory map. It didn't escape Elliot's notice that whenever she saw London or found a spot where he spent a lot of time, like his armchair or the windowsill, that she perked up, her tail wagging.

And he wondered about Alexander, who insisted that sentiment was such a flaw, yet had planned years ahead to give his brother a gift he had wanted all of his life.

Maybe it's not as bad as all that, then, Elliot thought, a fond smile tugging at his lips when the dog padded over to where they were seated on the couch, London sprawled all over leaving Elliot nearly on the floor, to rest her chin against London's knee. Almost unconsciously, as if he'd been doing it for ages, London reached down without looking, scratching her behind the ears.

"Hanson," London said suddenly, drowning out the silence – although he'd been doing that anyway, having abandoned his experiments to provide a running commentary on what he had seen outside. Elliot had let him without even any cursory protests, recognizing it was another way London kept himself thinking, turning a question over and over in his mind and using small distractions to help focus.

"What?" Elliot asked, derailed by the abrupt change in topic.

"Her name," London said, glancing back down at the dog. "It should be Hanson."

Elliot's lips stretched into a grin.

"You just want to shout that name down the stairs again, don't you?" he asked.

London's lips twitched, the muscles in his face shifting to try and contain the smile, but his grey eyes were bright – even though he refused to meet Elliot's gaze, staring intently at the smiley face which was spray painted on the wall in front of them.

"Honestly," London sniffed, and Elliot's grin widened, a chuckle reverberating in his chest. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The change made Baker Street feel both more and less like home, as if they had finally acknowledged there was no going back to the way things used to be, not entirely, but that the whole building was well and truly theirs. It seemed strange to Elliot to have so much space, and to admit that the arrangement was permanent, but it felt right.

Winter crept in, shrouding the city in lengthening periods of darkness, but Elliot found late November brightened by a visit from Alexandre, who had kept his word about visiting once London had recovered.

He came alone, which Elliot was grateful for – Baker Street wasn't even remotely baby-proofed, and unless Elliot missed his guess, Élodie would have been walking by now, or very close to.

If Elliot hadn't know what had happened, he would never have suspected that Alexandre had been the victim of an abduction by an international criminal who had snatched him from his home country and smuggled into another to use him as a game piece against yet another international criminal. He was back to the cheery self Elliot remembered from Paris – even as the doctor scrutinized Alexandre's face (hopefully discreetly), he couldn't see any tension or reluctance hovering just below the surface.

The Consulting Criminal probably could, and Elliot actually hoped he did. Not just because it was what London did, reading people so effortlessly, but because it would give him more insight into someone he still didn't readily remember.

London could recall most of their trip to Paris, but bits and pieces were missing. He had vague recollections of being in Alexandre's apartment, but impressions more than actual information – although, much to Elliot's surprise, he had remembered the baby.

The majority of his memories centered – perhaps unsurprisingly – around Elliot.

Alexandre had no such problem of course, and chatted happily about his friends in the gens d'armes who were fans of London's, whom he'd first mentioned during the Consulting Criminal and Elliot's visit, and presented London with a number of business cards, each with personal and heartfelt thank you notes written on the back.

"Anytime you need something, they told 'e to tell you to all," Alexandre said. "anything at all."

London looked pleased by the sudden jump in his contacts, especially foreign ones, and Elliot wondered what kind of trouble this would get them into.

After Alexandre had left, London carefully cataloged all of the new contact information into his Mind Palace, deliberately ignoring Elliot, who watched with an amused smirk.

Maybe – just maybe – if he played it right, there could be another trip to Paris in their future.

He'd certainly enjoyed the first one.

Although he could have done without all of the fallout afterwards.

They both could have.

Next time, he told himself, they'd be better prepared.

The dead were dead, but they still had living threats to worry about.

Or at least he did. For all the damage Mary had inflicted on London, the Consulting Criminal was irritatingly blasé about her. Elliot knew full well that Alexander kept a sharp eye on them, much to London's dissatisfaction, but he couldn't shake the knowledge that she'd fooled Alexander for months and had eluded all attempts to find her.

He doubted they'd seen the last of her – despite her promise to London that they'd never see her again. It didn't have to be her, after all. The last time (two times if Elliot counted Wales), it had been Benjamin. It wasn't going to be him again; the police had as much luck tracking him as they had Mary.

Occasionally, Elliot wondered where he was and vaguely hoped he was all right.

Despite it all, he'd saved their lives twice.

Of course, Mary's surveillance could have been anyone. They didn't have to be recognizable to Elliot, and it was obviously better from her perspective if they weren't.

When it really started to get under Elliot's skin, he thought about Dimmock, and how he'd accidentally assumed he was one of Mary's people. He'd been wrong, and London trusted him – it took conscious effort but Elliot somehow managed not to convince himself that everyone who glanced at them or walked past the apartment was a spy.

He got used to it – eventually, far more slowly than London's faculties returned, but by early December, with Christmas approaching, he felt comfortable again – maybe not safe, but at least somewhat secure.

He should have known Mary would pick her time perfectly to make her next move.

Mary examined herself critically in the mirror of the small compact, smoothing strands of hair here and there until it was perfectly coiffed, creating the image she wanted.

Of course, this was a wig – her own hair was nearly as short as the pixie style she was currently sporting, but not as dark. There was an off-chance that Georges Alexandre would recognize the hairstyle she'd had when she'd rescued him, and with all of the media attention his abduction and rescue had generated, Mary had no inclination to take unnecessary risks. It had been simple enough to have her A-line bob restyled into something shorter, to have some darker highlights put in, nothing drastic, a deep caramel that suited her dark blond hair.

The dark brown suited her too, and she considered making the switch permanent, although it would have to wait. Too soon after this and she ran the risk of being noticed.

The glasses helped; they were unnecessary on a functional level, but drew attention away from the rest of her, and some small adjustments to her comportment and posture added to the illusion – when this was all done, her target would walk away none the wiser.

Of course, this was something of a gamble. One she'd carefully examined from all angles, laying the groundwork for months before even making contact with Alexandre.

Too soon and he would be suspicious – chances were that he already was, and there was a distinct possibility that he would alert the gens d'armes.

If it came to that, Mary had contingencies.

She'd doubled her usual number of back-up plans, ensuring she'd walk away from this without any damage to herself – and, if possible, to her brother.

He'd agreed to meet her at a hotel bar – not anywhere close to where she was staying, but it was handy for him to think she might have rented a room there. The venue was public enough that she couldn't try anything, but discreet enough, with no other patrons at this time of day, that they'd have a chance to talk.

Alexandre surprised her somewhat – apparently he knew some of the staff here, given the greetings he received. The staff were trained to be gracious and welcoming, but there was something a touch more personal to how they greeted her brother.

Mary doubted it was because of frequent custom. She'd checked up on him enough to know there was nothing untoward in his personal life, which she counted as a blessing. Those things could be managed, but, on the whole, she'd rather not.

He was enough of a complication, one she couldn't simply get rid of – and, much to her surprise, one she didn't want to get rid of.

The relaxed attitude vanished when he saw her, replaced by a hard set to his jaw, a slight shifting of his posture to defensive. Mary ignored it, rising to shake his hand, suppressing the surprise at seeing none of herself reflected in his features.

He apparently didn't take after their father.

Then again, neither did she.

"Thank you for coming," she said, gesturing to the seat across the small table from her.

"You can tell your client to forget it," he said, remaining standing. Mary did the same, fingertips resting on the tabletop. "And to stop wasting my time."

"Monsieur Georges–"

"I have no interest in her," he interjected.

"She understands."

"Then why meet me?" he demanded.

Mary didn't bother pointing out he'd also chosen to come, and gestured again at the chair.

"Please, five minutes of your time, then I assure you, you'll never hear from us again."

Alexandre sat with bad grace, folding his hands on the table and glaring at her.

"You're right. I won't," he agreed, and she hear the warning in there, loud and clear.

"Let me begin by passing on my client's apologies." She avoided referring to herself – her supposed 'client' – as his sister, correctly judging that it would make him completely unreceptive. "She is very sorry for the distress you suffered."

"Good for her," Alexandre said.

"She'd like to know if there's anything she can do for you."

"She can turn herself over to Interpol," he replied curtly.

Mary feigned smothered surprise, and Alexandre sighed, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed.

"I could have told the police, but what good would it have done? She's arranged it so nothing can touch you – I doubt they could even touch her, even if she was right in front of them. Do you know how I know that? I've had more meetings and interviews with the police than I can count, each of them trying to uncover everything I know about her. I know nothing, but they keep asking – and it's not because they don't believe me. It's because they don't have anything. Nothing substantive. She's like ice, isn't she? Everything slides right off. Because she's set it up that way."

He leaned forward again, dark eyes bright.

"And even if she hasn't, she's got a whole army of lawyers like you. I'm not a police officer, but I've worked with enough of them to understand how easily money can make things vanish. Evidence. Problems. Other people."

Mary drew a breath but Alexandre shook his head, shooting her a warning glare.

"So you can go back and tell your client that I want nothing from her. Exactly nothing. No meetings, no money, no protection. No contact. Nothing. If she ever comes near me or my family – for any reason – I don't know how, but I'll find out. And I won't sit and talk and be reasonable. Do you understand?"

Mary paused, not entirely having to fake being nonplussed.

"Yes," she said.

"Good," Alexandre said, pushing himself to his feet.

He gave her one more long look, then stalked away without pausing or glancing back.

It didn't come the way Elliot had been expecting – any of the ways, the ones he'd come up with in the middle of the night or on the tube on the way home from work or waiting in line at the shops.

It had nothing to do with London when it happened – or rather, it did, but the Consulting Criminal was oblivious to it, entrenched in an experiment and on the phone with Molly, who was mirroring his study at the morgue. Elliot had picked a time to be conveniently ignorant as to what was happening in his own kitchen, distracting himself by doing the tedious but necessary maintenance of the Consulting Criminal's bank accounts.

Left to his own devices, London did nothing with them; Elliot assumed that before him, Alexander had managed all of the details, if only to ensure his baby brother didn't end up in prison for tax evasion.

Probably wouldn't have reflected well on him, Elliot thought with a faint smirk.

The abrupt jump in the account made his smile vanish – a single payment for fifty thousand pounds nearly knocked him out of his chair, leaving him convinced that his ears were playing tricks on him.

Elliot looked into the payment carefully, still waiting for it to disappear. The memo attached to the transfer read simply 'consulting fees', and there was no name attached to the account it had come from.

He probably could have called Alexander and had the account traced, but Elliot had a very good idea that would only lead them on a wild goose chase with nothing but dead ends.

Mary wouldn't have sent the money if she thought for a moment it could be traced in any way.

Elliot wouldn't have been surprised if the account had been a dummy one, set up only for this, now defunct.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, wondering what to do.

In the end, he transferred half of it into short-term investments, and kept the other half for them as income. He didn't mention it to London, who either never noticed or didn't care – the Consulting Criminal didn't care one whit what Elliot did with their finances.

He held out some vague hope that he might be able to convince London to take a proper holiday – one that was planned as such – someday.

It would be nice to have something to finance that without resorting to Alexander's accounts.

He'd also been thinking about converting the downstairs kitchen into a lab for London, one with a fume hood and all of the other proper equipment.

It would keep the Consulting Criminal out of Molly's hair, and keep unknown and potentially toxic ingredients out of their dinners.

And Elliot had specific plans for the rest of the money – or as specific as it could get, dependent on other people. 

The apartment was silent save for the faint and occasional strains from a violin. The music wasn't much right now, snatches of melodies that were punctuated by silence as London noted them down, tweaking them to bring the half-formed tunes in his mind closer to reality. It would be something full and complete in time – he didn't know when, but it scarcely mattered. Once it was pieced together, he could play it for Elliot before moving on, the charm of creating something new outweighing any desires to revisit older material.

Only the old masters kept him captivated, returning again and again to chase the meanings in their melodies, all the hidden nuances and suggestions.

That was their genius.

London supposed if he'd turned his own genius to music, he'd have accomplished the same thing. But there was no real exhilaration there for him – it was genius on a level that reached the masses, the bypassed intellect and appealed directly to emotion, but beyond that, there was no challenge to it.

No triumph.

Show off, Elliot's voice said in his mind and he smiled despite himself, giving a quiet chuckle.

Hanson, asleep at his feet, raising her head to look at him owlishly. London crouched down to scratch her ears, earning an errant lick on his palm. She wagged her tail once or twice, then settled down again, watching him briefly before dropping back to sleep.

The Consulting Criminal considered sleep himself – he wasn't tired. Elliot was sound asleep upstairs in bed, and, over the months, had grown used to London making noise at all hours.

It no longer woke Elliot up.

Unless London wanted it to.

He would go up soon, he promised himself. 

London finished what he could of his composition and packed his violin away carefully before taking it back upstairs. Hanson followed next to him, her steps as silent as his, watching him intently as he stowed the instrument in its usual space.

Hanson suddenly stopped walking and her ears perked up and ran back downstairs. London, curious, followed her back down and found her looking out the window he often sat at. 

He crossed the living room silently, avoiding casting a shadow in the faint light, keeping himself close to the wall, just barely twitching the curtain aside enough to peer down at the nearly empty street below.

A familiar figure stood in a circle of street light, gazing directly up at him, hands tucked into his pockets, a slight smile on his face.

London relaxed minutely, scanning the rest of the street quickly, vaguely surprised that his brother's surveillance people hadn't come roaring out of nowhere.

However he knew that the person waiting for him had resources of their own.