Elliot wakes up, but doesn't open his eyes.

As soon as he's come around, he's alert and tense. His muscles want to jump, eyes want to snap open, a shout crawling up his throat. He just keeps on breathing deeply, doesn't move.

There is breath puffing against his hair, ruffling it just at the top. He can feel eyes boring into him, watching, recording. Elliot has always been aware of the Consulting Criminal, always, always, always. Before he left, and after, when he was in the graveyard, and even the moment he walked into the apartment.

Elliot can feel him now.

“I know you're awake,” London tells him, because of course he knows.

Elliot doesn't open his eyes. “I don't want to see you.”

“Would you be happier if I went back to being dead?”

That is a terrible, horrible thing to say. Elliot goes still, heart picking up in his chest. Goosebumps rise up his arms, and he can feel all the small hairs there stand up in attention. London is still hovering above him, but Elliot is suddenly terrified that when he opens his eyes, it will have all been a dream.

“I asked you,” Elliot whispers, still not even cracking his eyelids, “no, I begged you, London; I wanted one more miracle, just one.”

London sighs heavy above him, breath pooling over Elliot's cheeks. “Hmm, yes you did. I've granted your wish, have I not?”

Finally, Elliot opens his eyes, and London is staring down at him, waiting. 

“Months too late,” Elliot tells him, voice cracking.

London rolls his eyes, standing up and leaving Elliot's eyesight, walking over to the chair across from the couch Elliot had slept on. Elliot doesn't sit up, just turns his head to look at London, trying not to be so obvious with how needy his gaze is.

“Miracles take time,” London tells him seriously.

Elliot swallows harshly, just staring. “Was it just a big experiment then? How did you pull it off? I was there, I saw you, I- I touched you, and- and-”

“Lazarus.”

"Come again?”

London crosses his legs, lips pulling down into a frown. “Culverton. He wanted to destroy me and ruin Alexander. Wanted to take everything away from me.”

“Yes,” Elliot agrees, sitting up on the couch, looking at London carefully, “it's why he ruined your reputation, why he-”

“No,” London says sharply, looking at him in vague annoyance, “he knew that didn't matter to me, just a mere tiresome irritation in the grand scheme of things. He knew where to hit me to make it hurt, knew who to go after.”

Elliot's not a complete idiot, so he guesses, “Me?”

“You,” London agrees.

“And that pushed you to kill yourself?”

“It was either me or you.”

Elliot sits back on the couch, reaching up to run a hand over his face, looking away from London, unable to stand the sight of him. “So, he threatens to kill me unless you kill yourself, and what? You never thought to tell me?”

“You saw his power, his resourcefulness. I couldn't take a chance, not with your life at stake. If I wouldn't have complied, you'd have been dead before breakfast. I didn't have a choice-”

“You had a bloody choice, you always have a choice!”

“Elliot,” London tries, but that's it.

Elliot launches himself to his feet, pointing a finger at London, anger brimming over, his voice rising into shouts. “No, no! You let me believe you died! I thought you were gone, thought- and for what? You had choices, endless choices!”

London doesn't stand, just looks up at him. “Stop this and listen to me. He threatened your life; I did what I had to do to keep you alive. I've spent the last three months with my brother - listen closely, Elliot - with Alexander trying to unravel his network, just so I could come home. Up until yesterday, it seemed impossible.”

“Do you have any idea what it was like?” Elliot croaks out, blinking rapidly to get rid of tears.

London looks confused, which he almost never does, and gives an awkward shrug. “I'm not entirely sure what you mean.”

“Up until yesterday, I believed you to be dead. I lived everyday knowing that you had killed yourself, knowing that my presence in your life was worthless, knowing I wouldn't ever see you again.”

“But none of that was real.”

“It was real for me! I lost my best friend, couldn't save him, and had to live with that! And it's your fault. You could have told me, or taken me with you, or killed me off instead! Anything. Anything besides what you did to me.”

And there it is, the crux of Elliot's problems, lying out there in Alexander's luxurious sitting room, open and bare for them to stare at.

London “died” and didn't have the decency to take Elliot with him when he did, reality or faked, it doesn't matter.

Elliot draws up and away, turning his back on London, staring down at his shoes and clenching his fists.

“I couldn't kill you off, not convincingly. You wouldn't have shown the proper reaction if you knew.”

“We have done everything worth doing together; why couldn't we have done this one as well?” Elliot whispers hoarsely.

Elliot feels more than hears London stand up, closes his eyes when a hand tentatively lands on his shoulder. “Would you have come if asked, just left everything you have behind?”

Elliot slowly turns around, staring up at London with glittering eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw, expression steady.

“Without hesitation.”

London opens his mouth to say something, face crumbling in surprise, but he snaps it shut when the phone suddenly starts ringing.

Elliot doesn't immediately answer it, wrapped up in staring at London, almost can't tear his eyes away.

There's a charge in the air between them, something like tension, but not quite.

“Answer it,” London murmurs, shattering the moment as he drops his eyes.

Elliot does as he's asked, answering the phone and clearing his throat. “Yes?”

“Elliot, I'm glad I caught you,” Greg sighs on the other line. “There's a case, and it's a bit-”

“Fine,” Elliot cuts him off, “I'll be there, and I'm bringing someone.”

“What, Elliot-”

Elliot hangs up and London stares at him, trying to keep his composure, but Elliot can see the excitement flaring in his eyes.

He looks genuinely happy for the first time since he's been back, and it hurts in the best way.

Elliot clears his throat again.

“There's a case.”

“I heard. I'm coming with you.”

“Yes,” Elliot confirms, bobbing his head, “but only because lives are at stake. You are not forgiven.”

“Of course,” London murmurs, resigned.

“After it's solved, we'll have a proper talk, and if, at the end, I don't want to legitimately murder you, I'll stay. If I do, I'm leaving,” Elliot explains carefully.

“Leaving?” London asks softly.

Elliot nods stiffly. “Moving out.”

“I don't want-”

“I didn't want you to be dead, but you were, so we don't always get what we want, do we?”

London tucks in his lips and looks down for a moment, fingers twitching at his sides. “Yes, fine. May we go now?”

Elliot sweeps out his hand. “After you.”

As they leave, the door shutting behind them, Alexander gently bangs his head against his refrigerator door, inwardly cursing whatever deity that decided to allow these two complete idiots to cross paths.

“You solved the last case all on your own,” London observes in the quiet of the cab ride.

Elliot keeps staring out the window. “You would have solved it in a day.”

“Well, yes, but you're not me.”

“Indeed.”

“Tell me how you knew where she was.”

“Bibles. She always took a bible. There is only one chain of hotels that carry bibles in central London, and she had one hotel left she hadn't touched.”

London hums, pleased. “I'm proud of you.”

“Don't be,” Elliot snaps, looking over at him, eyes narrowing. “Your voice was in my head the whole time, telling me what to do, pushing me to figure it out. That's another thing that happened when you died; I made you up in my head to get by.”

“You made me up in your head because you associate intelligence and detective skills with me,” London says quietly, frowning at Elliot.

“No I made you up in my head because I missed you.”

London's jaw twitches as he looks away, shoulders stiff, long neck obscured by a mass of curls and the collar of his coat. Elliot snatches his eyes away, staring out his window again. The silence is heavy between them, sharp and poignant; Elliot almost thinks he can hear their rapid heartbeats.  

“Do you think it was easy for me?”

Elliot blinks, head snapping over as he turns harsh eyes to his companion.

London still isn't looking at him, but his throat bobs in the silence. Elliot scans him, notes his fingers gripping each other in his lap, takes in just how stiff he is, eyes the way his jaw hardens with him gritting his teeth.

Elliot hums, sarcastically asks, “Was it? How am I to know? You were probably having the time of your life, getting off on solving Culverton's puzzle. For all I know, you were too caught up to notice the passing time, and you probably didn't even-”

“Elliot,” London cuts him off harshly, head whipping around, greyish-blue eyes sharp and thinned into accusing slits, “stop this nonsense immediately. I spent every moment trying to get back to my life as it was before. There was not a moment that I enjoyed being away, and it certainly wasn't easy for me. I had to watch you, day in and day out, in a state of mourning, always fearing for your life, always wondering when I would finally be able to fix things.”

“You watched me?” Elliot sputters, eyes going wide, anger and shame coursing through him.

London rolls his eyes. “Between moments of taking down Culverton, I found… relief in watching you. It was merely a comfort, and one I shouldn't have taken. That was a gamble with your life as well, but I…”

London snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking together loudly.

There is plenty to examine from what he had just said, but the most fascinating part - to Elliot at least - are the words the Consulting Criminal didn't say.

He almost never doesn't finish out a thought; he has always spoken faster than his mind can think, so he never truly has control on what he says. It's another area that Elliot comes in handy.

Yet, suddenly, the Consulting Criminal goes quiet.

Elliot prompts him. “But you…?”

London still looks angry, and when he speaks, his words tumble out in a hard, quick rush. “It was completely baseless of me to watch after you, of course. A selfish action based off sentiment, which, as you know, only pairs itself with weakness; I shouldn't have put you in such a predicament, especially one so serious such as that. No express permission was granted for me to play with your life, and look where sentiment got me. Weakness, you have all rights to hate me after-”

“London.”

“- such an inexcusable moment of-”

“London.”

“- stupidity, which I certainly have never been, and-”

"Holmes!”

The words cut off, and London sucks in a deep breath, relaxing back into the seat. Elliot can't help how his lips twitch, even despite the anger he feels over losing his best friend and gaining him back all in months. Elliot knows it isn't quite the time, but he reaches over and gently nudges London's shoulder, making him flick him a quick glance.

“Don't do that,” London snaps, voice thin and tight. “Of all the things to be angry with me for, you shouldn't discard my idiocy when it came to sentimentality so simply.”

Elliot full out smiles then. “You are human. You missed me, so you watched me. It's not idiocy, it's normal.”

London curls his lip. “Tedious,” he snaps. “It was a mistake; you could have died. It went against every single thing that I knew to be true-”

“And you still did it,” Elliot says softly. “Despite your concern for me, you still put my life in danger for purely selfish reasons.”

“Yes,” London whispers, looking back out the window again, his chest stuttering as he inhaled a shaky breath, throat bobbing again.

Elliot sighs. “I'm not angry about that.”

“You should be. That's exactly why you should be angry. One mistake, one misstep, and you would have sullied the walls of Baker Street with your blood spatter.”

Immediately after the harsh words, London blanches, expression flinching, eyes closing.

Elliot watches in awe, mouth parting.

Of course, Elliot knows the limited fears that London has struggled with. Elliot dying had been one on the list since the pool, but it seems to have grown worse in the past months. His concern for Elliot's continuing life is something of a comfort, like a warm hand running up his back, kneading muscles and making him relax.

“But it didn't happen,” Elliot murmurs, leaning across the seat to try and grab his eye. “Listen to me, I did not die, you saved my life; there is no reason for me to be angry over that. I'm not angry about that.”

London finally looks at him. “You're angry that I died and I didn't tell you.”

Elliot gives a short nod. “Yes,” he says carefully, throat bobbing. “You left me. Whether you see it that way, you did.”

“I left for you.”

“That doesn't change the fact-”

“We're here,” the cabbie suddenly announces, turning around to face them with a small smile. “Have a nice day then, oh and I do hope you sort out your domestic.”

“Come on then, Elliot,” London cuts off the response he knows is coming, throwing some bills at the front and pushing Elliot out the cab.

“My first case since I came back; it better be worth my time. After, we talk at home, yes?”

Elliot blinks at London's rapid words. “Yes, of course. We have to solve it first though.”

London stares at him with a calculating gaze. “If I can solve it in under two minutes, will you agree to stay with me regardless if you wish to assault me?”

“That's a terrible bet,” Elliot snorts. “What if it's simple? I'm not taking that.”

“Come on. Cruz calling you, needing your help… it has to be a bit of a struggle. Take the bet.”

“I'm not. It's a ploy to get me to stay.”

“Well, yes,” London agrees, lips twitching into a small smirk.

“How about this? We go look at the body, and you decide if you'll take the bet.”

Elliot considers this, lips pursing. “Fine. I'll decide when we have all the details.”

London grins sharply, eyes bright.

“Fantastic!”

Then, the Consulting Criminal is off, rushing towards the building, and Elliot sighs, following after him, just as he always has, and quite possibly, always will.

Inspector Cruz was crying.

After he had hit and swore at the Consulting Criminal and needed to be restrained by Elliot.

London doesn't pay it any mind, but Elliot keeps staring in amazement. Cruz keeps turning his blotchy face to the side, wiping away the stray tears that fall, eyes immediately falling back to land on London - who doesn't seem to care and reads over the file with a small frown - after he turns away. It's almost as if he can't bare to look, but has no ability to look away; Elliot can relate.

Finally, the Inspector speaks. “You- you faked it?”

“Obviously,” London mutters, eyes scanning the thin file with annoyance. “Why are there only two victims? Did the organs get removed after- no, not the point. Elliot, we need to go see the crime scene.”

“London,” Elliot scolds lightly, making London look at him. Elliot jerks his head at Cruz, eyebrows raising, and London follows the movement.

London blinks at Cruz. “Oh,” he says, suddenly awkward and uncomfortable, “you missed me. Really? That's not what I was expecting. You rarely surprise me anymore, Inspector, good job.”

Elliot heaves a sigh, rolling his eyes. “What he means is that he missed you too.”

“That's not-”

Elliot sends him a sharp look, and London quickly stops his flow of words. Cruz watches, clearly emotional by the events. “Bloody hell, I never thought I'd get to see that again.”

“What?” London asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Elliot keeping your arse in line. Honestly, I'll regret saying this later, but I'm glad you're back.”

“That's great, Gavin. Where is the crime scene?”

The Inspector looks exasperated and makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Greg, my name is Greg and you know it. Here, you and Elliot can ride with me.”

London waves an uncaring hand and whirls out the room, still scanning the file with a small frown. The Inspector takes a deep breath, shaky hand coming up to run over his mouth, face slack in shock. Elliot watches sympathetically; he remembers all too well how he reacted when the Consulting Criminal returned.

“Go ahead, you can ask,” Elliot murmurs when Cruz's eyes start searching his face.

Surprisingly, Cruz looks concerned. “And how are you handling it then?”

Elliot suddenly remembers how London mocked the normal people for leading with their emotions; they blatantly disregard the chance to collect data just so they can find - or bring - comfort. Cruz must have endless questions, even ones Elliot can't answer, but his first instinct is to care about how Elliot feels. What London considers stupidity, Elliot finds himself appreciating.

It makes him relax.

“I bloody attacked him,” Elliot says, but doesn't say “in more ways than one” and gives a weak smile.

The Inspector just nods. “Sounds reasonable, knowing Holmes. Come on then, let's get going before he storms back in here like a pissed off peacock.” The Inspector grins and sweeps out a hand.

Elliot follows him to the door, frowning. “I know you have questions.”

“Yes, well, I've learned that when it comes to London, it's sometimes better to not know,” Cruz admits with a rueful chuckle, and he just walks out the door, adjusting to the new perimeters of London's return, as if it's just that simple.

Elliot hates him a bit for that.

London is waiting by the door, flipping through the file with quick, nimble fingers. His head snaps up when they join him in the hallway, and he closes the file, looking displeased.

Elliot opens his mouth to get them going when Donovan suddenly rounds the corner, sees them, and comes to a very abrupt halt, his eyes wide.

London flicks his eyes over him, one eyebrow sweeping up. “Sergeant Donovan, you look as if you've seen a ghost,” he says lightly, a malicious gleam in his eyes that Elliot makes no move to dim.

“You're dead,” he replies in a hoarse whisper.

“No. Despite the beginnings of a black eye and a split lip, it appears not,” London murmurs in open amusement, cocking his head to the side. “I see that you've stopped hitting your knees for Anderson in my absence. Good for you.”

Donovan's eyes flicker to Elliot for a moment before darting away. “How are you-”

“Oh! You have been busy.” London sounds surprised.

“London,” Elliot mumbles, averting his eyes when London glances at him.

“Whatever did you say to him? He certainly never stopped before. How did you-”

“Holmes,” The Inspector warns sharply.

London barrels on carelessly. “Oh no, this is quite the mystery. What did Elliot say to you to make you change your habits?”

Donovan averts his eyes, a faint blush tinting caramel colored cheeks. “You are the same menace you were before. I preferred you-”

He stops, skips his eyes over to Elliot, then turns on his heel and leaves. The Inspector heaves a sigh, Elliot forces his fists to unclench, and London immediately turns on him.

He looks amused, not hurt in the slightest, and Elliot has to look away.

“You'll tell me about this,” London says.

Elliot shakes his head. “There's nothing to tell. Come on, we must be going.”

Cruz leads them down the hall, and they follow. Elliot can feel London's eyes boring into the side of his face, searching and deducing and being the permanent thorn in Elliot's side.

When it becomes apparent that Elliot isn't going to explain, London starts pulling on his elbow.

Like a child demanding attention.

“What was said? After all the times I have belittled him about his involvement with Anderson, you say something once and he just, what, decided to stop? Elliot..."

“How about this? Can you just stop? There is nothing to tell.”

London might have let it go, but Cruz snorts loudly from in front of them, and his eyes brighten. “There very clearly is something to tell. I'd like to know. What did you say?”

“I don't remember,” Elliot snaps, sending a sharp look at him. “Drop it.”

The Consulting Criminal does not drop it.

“Oh, oh, this is fantastic. You can't remember, which suggests it was done in such a bout of emotion that you deleted it by accident. You're too good of a man to have hit him without a reason, so it was words. But what set you off? What did he say?”

“London, it's not-”

“Important. But it is. I wasn't here, and I want to know. It must've been something horrible or else you would remember it, so what did he-”

Elliot comes to an abrupt stop, whirling around on London, anger boiling up and over.

“You weren't here by your own choices! I'm not going to tell you what he said, and I don't remember what I said, so drop it already. Can I have one thing, please? Just one that you don't deduce, or find out, or pick away until you know!”

London's lips tighten, smile long gone. He's lost the fun of the game, and he narrows his eyes. “Gregory,” he says abruptly, whirling around to pin the wide-eyed Greg with a calculating look, “what did Donovan say to Elliot to set him off?”

“Don't you dare answer that,” Elliot growls, stomping forward to point at Greg.

“Um,” The Inspector chokes out.

“Was it terrible?” London asks.

Cruz flinches, London's eyebrows jump, and Elliot releases a harsh breath, hissing, “Stop interrogating him, Holmes, he won't say anything.”

“He had to incarcerate you after the fact, meaning you were in such a state that you couldn't be trusted with the public. It must have been awhile ago, possibly right after my death, because you don't still look too terribly affected at the sight of him. If it was right after my death, you were mostly touchy about one thing, which suggests that he said something vulgar about me, and you reacted very harshly. I'm not sure why you would withhold that from me, Elliot; Donovan never liked me, and I never him, so anything he could have said wouldn't bother me. And Cruz doesn't have to say anything at all, his face gives it all away.”

The Inspector looks tired, turning to face Elliot.

“Remember when I said I'd regret saying what I said moments ago? Yes, well, I was right.” He turns and walks away, shaking his head and walking out the door.

Elliot stares at London, and he wants to be angry, but he's mostly in awe. He always is when London does that, but now isn't the time.

“He told me the world was better off without you in it.”

“Oh,” London hums, frowning, “that doesn't surprise me much. I'll have to run into him and find out what you said to him. That will be interesting.”

“One thing,” Elliot breathes, weary and wrung out, and starts walking, “just one.”

London tuts, falling into step beside him. “You already have that.”

“Oh? Pray, tell, what have you withheld your brilliant mind from working out?”

“I do not like to repeat myself,” London snaps, bottom lip poking out just so in his trademark pout.

Elliot clears his throat, murmurs, “You can't? Or won't?"

London narrows his eyes, dangerous and angry, arms crossing over his chest.

“There are too many possibilities, Elliot, each more unlikely than the last. How does one deduce something that has no reasoning? It could've pertained to you being overwhelmed by emotion, or even just being happy to see me, your body reacting before you thought about it. There's also the chance of shock; everyone reacts to shock differently. Or perhaps you did it purposefully to confuse me. While the body often doesn't connect with the mind for normal people, you are certainly above average, and yet, you did it without so much as a reason. You haven't said anything about it, expressed regret, or made a move to do it again, so there's no reaction from you at all to tell me how you feel about it; in fact, it's almost as if it didn't happen to begin with, which I even considered, but I know I didn't imagine it, and-”

“London.”

Elliot watches in faint amusement as London snaps his jaws closes and takes a deep breath. When it's clear that he is going to stay quiet and listen, Elliot smiles and says, “Does your brain ever take a break at all?”

“No,” London mutters.

Elliot rolls his eyes and starts towards the car Cruz waits in.

“As amazing as your brain is, it should allow you rest every once in awhile,” he says softly, smiling over his shoulder as London rushes to catch up with him, strides long and growing short when they walk side by side.

“That doesn't tell me anything.”

“I'm going to keep my one thing, Holmes, and you're going to let me have it.”

“But-”

“No. Let's focus on the case. I'll let you know when we get there if I'll take the bet or not.”

London sulks the whole way to the scene, and Elliot just grins out the window.

Anderson takes one look at Elliot and sneers, then his gaze falls to watch London leave the car. Elliot can feel the twitch of his lips, but his smile is long gone when Anderson whirls away from the body, rushing over to some bushes and vomits loudly. Greg sighs, London smirks, and Elliot suddenly feels like joining Anderson in losing his lunch.

There's a moment where things become real; this is the worst possible moment for it to happen.

A sharp pain shoots up his right leg, suddenly there and visceral, and he has to shift his weight abruptly so as not to fall. As his left hand suddenly trembles, the ache in his injured shoulder abruptly flaring, Elliot has to take in a steady breath.

Right. Okay.

Elliot turns his eyes to London, stares at him until it hurts not to blink. He's here, he's alive, he reassures himself. He waits for the waves of pain and off-putting unsteadiness in his limbs to fade. London looks at him sharply, eyes calculating, gaze assessing; his lips tip down in a frown.

His hand steadies, his leg relaxes, and Elliot breathes slowly, swallowing thickly.

Elliot is suddenly terrified that he'll never be able to forgive the Consulting Criminal. The thought is like a dirty secret in his head, taunting him. Look what he's done; he can do it again. It's a fear, one that's just started up, settling deep in his chest, aching and heavy.

“The body is over here,” Cruz says, leading them over, yanking them back to the present.

Anderson slowly turns to face them as they walk up, eyes wide. “I quit,” he breathes out, blinking in surprise at his own statement.

“What?” Cruz asks, blinking rapidly.

“Yeah, that's- that's right. I quit,” Anderson says, drawing to his full height. “I can't do this anymore, not with him, not with them. This is too much.”

The Inspector looks as if he's going to try and comfort him, but London just flaps his hand carelessly, rudely drawls, “Yes, yes, you're overwhelmed and your estranged aunt has recently died, leaving you with money you don't deserve. What's the saying? I'm just the catalyst to your circumstance. Go away now; leaving is the best thing you've ever done for me.”

Anderson's eyes widen in offense, and that seems to be what pushes him over the edge. He yanks his gloves off harshly, throws them to the ground and roughly stomps on them, chest heaving. Elliot has to press his fist to his mouth to keep from outright laughing, but London looks very pleased with his outburst. Anderson releases a strangled growl and stomps off, leaving without saying anything else.

London looks at Elliot, and they hold some sense of control for a moment, but then London's lips twitch, and Elliot loses it. They fall into breathless laughter, soft and long-cherished giggles ringing out, making people stare at them like they're mad.

Cruz fights very hard to keep a straight face. “Boys, it's a crime scene. Stop it.”

London tucks his lips in and sobers, but his eyes are bright. “Bit not good?” He asks Elliot.

“Terrible, really,” Elliot says with a mock sigh, shaking his head. “How ever will we get by without him?”

London is very clearly pleased by Elliot's teasing, and he smiles all the way up to the body. Elliot follows a bit more slowly, looking around the scene. It's a woman, her purse lying beside her body, and there are terribly done stitches on her chest. London snaps on gloves and stoops down, just staring at her, his smile falling.

London looks at him in question. “Well?”

Elliot teeters on the edge of something, heart in his throat. From what Elliot knows of the case, it isn't something simple. The woman had died from infection due to her organs being removed, and her husband suffered the same fate a mere week earlier. There's no lead on the killer, no DNA to pick up, no reason why someone wanted their organs to begin with. There's not much evidence to deduce.

But London.

The Consulting Criminal is smart, probably already knows who the killer is and what they eat for dinner. The bet they've made isn't about London's intelligence; it's about Elliot's forgiveness.

He can take the bet, London can figure it out in under two minutes, and Elliot's decision will be snatched from him. He won't have to worry about deciding whether he can stay or not, won't have to admit to himself that it was what he wanted, won't have to take the step of letting the Consulting Criminal back in his life after he left it on purpose.

Or, he doesn't take the bet, and they finish up, go back to Baker Street to talk. If Elliot doesn't want to beat London to a bloody pulp again, if he can find it within himself to forgive him, he'll stay. That's a near impossible possibility, and Elliot is frightened of what that means.

London offers him this bet because he knows Elliot, knows what he needs, knows how to ease the uncertainty and war he has within himself.

Elliot breathes carefully.

“I'll take the bet.”

“Cruz, set a timer of two minutes, start when I tell you,” London orders, never taking his eyes from Elliot. When Cruz warily does as he's asked, the Consulting Criminal stands up, says, “Start it.”

The Inspector does as he's told.

London takes a step towards Elliot, just stares at him patiently. The seconds tick by, and with each one, Elliot struggles to breathe. London isn't moving, isn't even looking at the body, isn't even going to try. Elliot suddenly fights the urge to rage, to scream, to lash out, or worse.

Elliot's lips tremble around his name, a plea, or a question, but it never comes out. London holds his gaze; The Inspector's watch keeps ticking.

And it's not fair, not fair at all.

London knows Elliot would find complacency in having the decision taken away, but he's not selfish enough to do that, even though Elliot wants him to be. London wants to be forgiven, wants it to be Elliot's choice, and Elliot doesn't think he can do it.

“What bet is this then?” Cruz asks awkwardly.

They say nothing.

Elliot flicks his gaze to the time. Only twenty-four seconds left. Elliot stares at London, waits for him to give into the urge of showing off at the last second. That would make more sense than anything.

The two minutes are up, Cruz announces into the tense silence, and London breaks his gaze. 

“It was the son who took the organs, but she did it. Obviously.”

Elliot curses sharply and turns away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Anger floods into him again, and it's been doing that so much in the past six months. It's not stopping, not running out, not tempered with London's presence; if anything, the fury and resentment has gotten worse.

Elliot whirls around, pins London with a look. “Explain it. Why was it the dead woman?”

London twitches, fingers flickering in his wariness, and clears his throat. “The sutures are done poorly, but the cut was started by the woman. She began to cut herself open, but couldn't finish, and the son took over. Her purse is worn and old and needs replacing, but she hasn't because they're low on money. There is financial aid papers sticking out at the top for college in America, but she's not going back to college. No, her son wants to, so she's trying to find money. She is the one who sold her husbands organs; she killed him. It's not obvious, but she's left-handed, so it looks as if she never made the cut herself. She sold her husband's organs, then sacrificed her own, just so her son could go to college in America, just so he can follow his dreams, just so he can be happy.”

The Inspector scoffs. “That doesn't make sense.”

“Look at the state of her fingernails; she bites them nervously. Patches of her hair are missing. She was mentally unstable and possibly was obsessed with the happiness of her son, even to extreme measures. The beginning of the cut on her and the ones on her husband match, but you can tell where the son took over. There is blood wiped away in certain spots, where he cried over her, then tried to get rid of the evidence. Take the samples, talk to the son, but he's no murderer.”

Elliot's chest rises and falls, short little shallow thrusts as his heart races in his chest. It's always been awe-inspiring to watch London do that. He barely even looked at the scene, and he's figured out without so much as an issue. He's known, possibly since they arrived at the Yard, but he let Elliot have his bet, let him win it, and will let him make the final decision.

It's almost painful to think about.

“Amazing,” Elliot breathes, the word slipping out without permission.

It's amazing, all of it. London's mind, London giving him the choice, London being alive.

Cruz sighs heavily. “Well go on then. I'll call you and let you know.”

The Consulting Criminal doesn't wait, just takes the brisk walk back to the street, flagging a cab so easily that Elliot hates him. It's as if they all became aware that he's back and adjusted themselves accordingly to do his bidding. Elliot has never missed him more than he does in that moment, and his eyes sting as he follows London into the cab.

“Baker Street,” London tells the cabbie, settling back in the seat.

His next word is a whisper, one Elliot barely hears, but it pierces his heart when he processes it.

Mrs. Hanson sticks her head out as soon as they enter. “So you two have made up then?”

“Not quite,” London says, moving towards the stairs. Elliot pauses to give her a reassuring smile.

“Oh, Elliot, don't be so hard on him. He's missed us something terribly, can't you tell? Find it within yourself to forgive him, or you'll never forgive yourself if you lose him again,” Mrs. Hanson tells him, lips trembling around a watery smile. “It's a bit of a domestic, dear, every couple has them.”

“Mrs. Hanson…” Elliot trails off and gives a weary sigh. “Thank you. Come around for tea later?”

Mrs. Hanson brightens immediately. “Of course, dear. I'll be up after my book runs out of things to keep me occupied.”

Elliot thinks about moving out, thinks about how he'll miss her if he does, thinks about how she'll call him and berate him for things that don't make sense to anyone but older, tittering women with not enough to do in their day. She won't come in and check on him, won't make him tea, won't insinuate he and London are married, won't tut about the state of the apartment. 

And if he goes, he'll miss her.

Elliot moves forward and pulls her from the doorway, tugging her into a delicate hug. “Thank you, Mrs. H, for everything.”

She chuckles in his hold, allows it for a moment, then pulls away to look at him fondly. “Oh, it's alright. You're my boys; it's what I do. Less of a job now that London's back; he'll look after you, and you'll look after him. That's what you two do.”

Elliot gives her a thin smile, doesn't correct her, lets her have this. The fear that he'll leave still sits heavy in his chest, a constant throb of what he knows he can't handle. When he turns away and starts up the stairs, London stares down at him from the top, face drawn and exhausted.

He knows.

London just grits his jaw and strides inside, leaving Elliot to climb the stairs. Elliot thinks, sadly, that he loves these stairs. It was his first metaphorical mountain that led him to healing, a hurdle to climb that started his adventure with the Consulting Criminal. He climbs them now, his shoes thumping on the old wood dully; he has always loved that sound, does even more so now, loves the final thunk when he reaches the landing.

It sounds like finality, like taking a chance, like coming home.

Elliot hadn't changed one thing after London's “death” because he simply hadn't been able to. Nothing sits out of place; it's clear that the apartment - and Elliot - have been waiting for him to come back. The first time Mrs. Hanson had come up with intentions of tidying, Elliot had yelled and raged and ran her off, careless of the pain she must've felt. He'd apologized later, of course, but he'll never forget her wide eyes as his shouts echoed in the emptiness that London should've occupied.

The chair hasn't moved an inch, Elliot keeps it free of dust. The violin still has its corner, Elliot carefully keeps it pristine. The experiments haven't been finished, Elliot waits patiently for the results to appear. There's still haphazard files thrown about that London had tossed around the day before he left, Elliot never sorts them and won't let Cruz have them, no matter how many times he's asked. London's scarf still hangs by the door, Elliot hasn't had the heart to wash out the Consulting Criminal's smell, even though it's beginning to get musty now.

Nothing has changed, Elliot hasn't let it, couldn't handle it.

And London fits right back in like he's never left, hanging up his coat by the door, settling into his chair without a thought, pushing the small table between their chairs just off center like he always does; Elliot nearly chokes at the sight as he'd fixed it before London “died” and it never had been pushed around again.

Elliot can see it, can perfectly picture how things will go. London will come back, Elliot will stay, and their lives will continue on with just a mere stutter. Elliot hadn't moved on, hadn't been able to, and London won't have to try to fix himself back into things. It's a horrible thought, but Elliot doesn't want it to be easy for him, doesn't want him to be able to come back and have no issues to work through.

It's not fair.

Elliot's been struggling since the moment London had stood on the roof and took the step off; the Consulting Criminal should have his own challenges as well.

“Are you going to hover in the doorway all night, or are you going to come in so we can talk?”

Elliot jolts, pushing himself into the room. London looks at him patiently, and Elliot can't handle it. With his entire body trembling, he goes into the kitchen to make him some tea. The comfortable sound of clinking and boiling water helps him breathe, helps him relax as he braces his arms on the counter, eyes slipping closed under the weight of the stress.

Before he's thought about it, Elliot has poured two mugs, mixing London's up just how he likes, making sure to keep the spoon in for him to fiddle with because it makes him feel calmer.

It's just a… nice gesture. Just one that conveys how much he cares for London, how easy it is to slip him back into Elliot's daily routine, how he can't forget that he's Elliot and that's London and they're them.

Forgiveness is simply a facade he's used to protect him. Again, unbidden, the words float through his mind like a curse, or a reprieve:

'We see what we want to see.'

Elliot carries the mugs over, sits them down on the small table between them.

“Alright, let's talk.”

“You have questions.” London immediately starts fiddling with the spoon, clinking the sides of his cup with it. “I will answer them all.”

“Where did you go?”

“To begin with, I was on my own. I traveled all over, following whatever lead I had on dismantling Culverton's network. I was mostly out of England; I went to China, the States, where my father has people and Russia, where I spent majority of my time in Siberia.”

“And after?”

“As much as I loathe to admit it, I have a brother with the entire British Government at his disposal. When I realized my mission was going to take much longer than I hoped, I sought him out.”

“How much longer?”

“Elliot.”

“London, how much longer?”

“What was wrapped up in six months with him would have taken years without… two, possibly three, by my calculations.”

Elliot grips his mug and looks away, throat tight and dry. He drinks his tea and feels incredibly grateful that Alexander exists.

“What were you doing?”

“Culverton had many things in place to follow through with his threat, even after his death, if I failed to follow through my end of the bargain. I found them all, and as Alexander put it… extracted them.”

“Did you kill people?”

“Yes.”

Elliot closes his eyes and turns his face to the side. He can't help but feel disappointment, though not at the Consulting Criminal. There's a guilt settling on his chest; he should've been there, should have been the one to pull the trigger, just as he has always done so that London wouldn't have to. There's resentment that London didn't take him, but mostly… Elliot just feels pity; killing isn't easy, and London shouldn't have been forced to do it.

“Were you hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I was stabbed, once in the side with no major issues, once in the arm and leg which I barely felt. There was a time I was caught and was put through what normal people consider torture, though I handled it well enough. Lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of water, floggings that tore my back open and left me with scars. Nothing to concern yourself with, I'm fine.”

Elliot lifts a shaky hand and covers his mouth, willing his stomach to stop turning. The thought of London dealing with… that makes Elliot's chest hurt, makes his stomach roll, makes his breathing go thin. London looks as if he's discussing the weather, words casual, tone light, but Elliot can see the tightness around his eyes, the discomfort betrayed in the small details of his face. Elliot recognizes them as his own; he looks the same when discussing things from the war.

London shouldn't have had to go to war.

“Who else knew?”

“One person and one alone. Molly.”

That hurts a bit, but Elliot keeps to the facts.

“Why was she told?”

“She helped me fake it. Only she could have, while also keeping it to herself. Her previous devotion to me was exploited, a thing I came to regret. It was necessary, however, as she was the only one who would follow my directions without so much as looking twice, and her resources were needed.”

“When did you return to here?”

“Three months after my death. There were still two more contacts that needed to be handled, one prepared to kill you at the mere whisper of me, one running what Culverton left behind.”

“You began watching me then?”

London's steady gaze breaks. He'd been holding Elliot's eyes and answering without displaying any flicker of emotion, but here… he falters. “I lasted all of a week before I had Alexander help me watch over you. I shouldn't have-”

“No. No. This is mine, Holmes. Why did you call your brother for help? What pushed you to do that?”

“I knew there were people in here who needed to be handled and things were getting a bit risky in Russia, but mostly… I just wanted to come home. I wanted it to be over so I could get back to my life, back to… what I left behind.”

There's nothing else to be said, not really. Elliot could ask for details, could ask for endless reports on London's time away, and he would give it to him. But Elliot really doesn't want to know. He doesn't want the knowledge of the things that London had to do, nor the things he went through. It's painful enough knowing the little that he does.

But there is… something.

The true problem sits heavy and solid between them, dragging tension in their sitting room. It's the very thing Elliot is terrified to ask, the one he needs to know the most. It sits at the back of his throat, knocking at his teeth, making his lips sting with the urge to spit it out. London knows - he always does - and he waits patiently.

Finally, Elliot chokes out, “Why?”

That one word sums of everything Elliot needs to know, but can't bare to hear. Why did you leave me, why didn't you take me with you, why didn't you let me know you were alive along with Molly, or even Alexander, why didn't you let me come and take every hit that you did and make every kill you shouldn't have had to, why, why, why…

London is London, so he needs no elaboration.

“You are too important to me,” London whispers, face softening. “I did not want you to come. I knew it was going to be hard, and I didn't want you to deal with that. I was mostly able to convince myself that my “death” wouldn't hurt you as deeply as it does. You have always meant too much for me to put you at risk… but you already knew that.”

Elliot wants to cry, but he ignores it with valiant effort. “Tell me you're sorry, tell me you'd do it differently if you could go back, tell me you'll never put me so far above yourself again,” he demands, his voice cracking with his pleading. “Please, just tell me… Tell me and mean it."

London holds his gaze, and the seconds tick by as Elliot waits, hoping with all his being that the Consulting Criminal can give him this. He is on the precipice of letting it go, moving on, taking it as another moment in the life with London Holmes.

All London has to do is tell him what he needs to hear and sound convincing enough for Elliot to believe him.
 
The Consulting Criminal looks away and sips his tea.

Elliot chokes on a sob, world crumbling around him, finally, finally splintering apart with it. Because London doesn't lie to Elliot if he can help it, not about the things that matter. Because the Consulting Criminal can't give him this, can't let him think for even one moment that he's safe from such a fate. 

Because London is London, and Elliot can't.

Elliot gets to his feet, swaying from how weak he feels, and walks to kneel in front of London, catching his gaze. Elliot knows his eyes are bright with tears, his face is red with emotion, and he must look on the edge of a mental break. London does not look at him carefully, like he's worried; he watches Elliot curiously, waiting to be surprised, waiting for Elliot to do what he thinks he will do, waiting like he has never for anyone else.

Elliot braces his hands on London's knees and pushes himself up, leaning right into London, and pressing their foreheads together.

London is certainly surprised; he jolts and his teacup rattles when he shakily sets it aside. Elliot pays it no mind, just continues to stay where he is.

London makes a small noise in the back of his throat, just a small, broken thing that makes Elliot's heart ache with regret.

Elliot very carefully pulls away from him, blinking his eyes open. London's still poised, frozen in confusion. Then, his eyes peel open, bright and, for once, confused. He breathes harshly through his nose, blinking as if he can't even remember.

London tips his head back, looking up, exhaling shakily.

Watches as Elliot walk out of what was supposed to be their home, doesn't say a word, doesn't make a move to stop him.

Because he cannot.

It's been three days since Elliot left. While he'd been out, visiting with Molly, he had come back and taken most of his things; his clothes are gone, his gun is missing, the cup of tea he had made for himself still sits on the stand by his chair, mostly full with cold tea.

The Consulting Criminal hasn't been able to move it, though he knows how pointless it is to avoid it, and he spends most of his free time staring and glaring at it in intervals.

London hasn't had tea in three days.

Cruz had rung him up on day two with a case, and London had clung to it with barely concealed desperation, his troubled mind reaching for any distraction. The Consulting Criminal had solved it in two hours and is now back to staring at the cup sitting besides Elliot's chair.

He's sulking, he knows, but that's easier to admit than the chance that he's waiting, just on pause until Elliot comes back.

But Elliot is not coming back.

After everything - the fake death, the six months of constant worry, the idiotic ache in his chest he felt for home, for Elliot - London never expected him to leave. Well, Elliot has always managed to surprise him more than anyone else. A creature born of shameless emotion, armored with secrets and tedious hopes, Elliot appears a simple man. But London has been aware of Elliot's lack of simplicity since the moment he realized that, after only a few hours, Elliot had killed for him.

London tells himself that it's for the best. Elliot has six months of living without the Consulting Criminal, is probably settling on that preference. Though, London remembers the last touch they shared, how Elliot had sagged into him with such exhaustion and regret, pouring into that simple touch so many endless things London hadn't - and still hasn't - been able to to decipher. 

Another puzzle that follows Elliot wherever he goes.

London is staring at the cup again, but his gaze is distant, his mind works rapidly. He has no clue where to begin in this empty space.

“London!” Mrs. Hanson cries, whirling in through the door with her usual tutting and concerns. “Oh, you haven't left your spot since yesterday. Come now, surely there must be something for you to do.”

London does not look away from the tea. “I should move his tea; why haven't I moved his tea? That doesn't make any sense, it's just tea!”

Mrs. Hanson hovers near him, sighing like she thinks he's the biggest idiot alive, which he knows is impossible, but he makes no move to defend the state of his intelligence. She whisks around, tidying with nervous energy, and she purposefully bypasses the cup of tea. London knows he isn't going to enjoy whatever she is about to spout off about.

“You miss him, dear, that's all. Can't imagine he's faring any better; he was in a right state after that stunt you pulled.” She touches his shoulder as she lectures him, flitting off immediately after. “My boys, you're too special to let go of each other over a silly domestic, don't you think?”

“Dull,” he rattles off, eyes fixated on tea of all things.

Mrs. Hanson clicks her tongue disapprovingly, shaking her head. “You need to go and see him. Apologize, beg him back, do what you have to do. I won't stand for you moping about here, just because you're too blind to see how much he means to you. Just for once, listen to me.”

“I do not beg anyone for anything,” London snaps, jerking his gaze from the cup to glare at his assuming landlady.

“Well, you better learn how. Elliot's a soft one, isn't he? A bit more romantic than most; he'll need heartfelt apologies and grand gestures." Mrs. Hanson insists, heading towards the door again.

London considers her retreating figure, lips pursed in annoyance. “You were angry, but you forgave me. Even though you'd mourned me, you accepted me as if I never left. Shouldn't he do the same?”

Mrs. Hanson pauses in the doorway, looking back at him with fond exasperation. “Oh, London,” she sighs softly, reaching up to place her hand over her heart, “of all the things you can figure out, feelings just isn't one. I have loved you dearly for so long, and I always will, but I didn't lose half of myself when you left; Elliot did. Think about how'd you feel if he'd had done what you did, then go talk to him.”

With that, she sweeps out the door, leaving him with new information to mull over.

Though he thinks majority of what she'd said is absolute rubbish and not at all factual, he still finds himself standing. He walks over to the cup, considers picking it up and washing it, but his brain rationalizes that Elliot can clean up his own mess once he's returned home.

After all, London isn't going to just let this go; some things just aren't meant to be ignored, especially the mysterious ones.

Elliot has always been his favorite mystery.

As Elliot skips down the steps outside of Harry's home, a black car stops at the curb.

To him, it seems like a looming dragon he can't ignore, and seeing it grates on his nerves. He already wants to pull his hair out after three days with his older sister; he really doesn't want to deal with an older sibling that isn't his own right now.

The car still looms anyway, waiting.

Sighing, Elliot slides in, staring at Alexander flatly, in no mood to deal with him. “Yes, what is it?”

Alexander purses his lips, looking his usual sour self, and Elliot has to refrain from rolling his eyes as Alexander sweeps out a hand dramatically.“It seems my dear brother wants your attention today. I've been sent to assure your arrival to his current position in the City.”

“I have things to do today,” Elliot sighs wearily, ignoring how his heart leaps in his chest.

“Yes, well, my brother hasn't ever been aware that you have a life outside of him. Why should he start now?”

“Do I detect a note of bitterness in your tone? Is there something you wish to say to me?"

Alexander's eyes narrow and his next words come out hard and cold. “You left him. If it wasn't for his unperturbed fondness for you, I'd have you removed from existence for what you've done.”

Elliot reels back. “Are you threatening me?”

“While I'd savor such a moment, I'm not currently throwing threats. I personally think it's called for, but London has made it very clear that I'm not to breathe the wrong way in your direction,” Alexander snaps, fingers tightening around his umbrella. “As it stands, I'm cleaning up the mess you've made again, so I expect you to be a bit less hostile.”

“You just threatened to murder me, excuse me for not being so amicable. What are you on about anyway? I've made no mess, nor have I done anything to warrant your wrath.”

“As you know, I worry for London constantly, and I'd made the mistake of believing him safe in your care. I was terribly wrong.”

Elliot's heart jumps in his chest, throat going tight, endless horrific possibilities darting through his mind, each worse than the last. “What's happened to him? Is he- is he alright?”

“Quite,” Alexander snaps, looking at Elliot as if he's a mere flea. “Not in immediate danger, and while I'm slightly assured by your reaction, I still find myself - what's the word, ah yes - fearful for him. You took great liberties to mentally destroy him, though he won't ever show such a thing.”

“How have I done that? Your brother is-”

“He went through traumatic events while he was away and, as you are well aware, that can affect anyone more than they're aware of. His one relieving factor was you through it all. And you left. Do you have any idea what this will do to him?”

Elliot blinks. “No, actually. I didn't leave on bad terms, I just… needed to go.”

“Yes, and London needed you to stay. You've let me down, you've let him down, and worst of all, you've let yourself down without even knowing it.”

“Are you guilt-tripping me? Do you honestly expect me to believe that your brother is-”

Alexander gives a sharp hiss, sliding forward in his seat to pin Elliot with narrowed eyes. “I do not care what you believe. The facts are unprecedented; you chose to leave him when you both needed to stay. Don't you think London will consider your leaving as a sign of you being able to live without him? Have you even thought - with that tiny brain of yours - about how my brother will feel about you leaving?”

“No, I bloody well haven't. I didn't leave London because of him, I left him for myself! What happens the next time a random killer tells him to fling himself off the top of the highest building or put a bullet in his own head lest something happens to me? Hmm, what then? It's not that I can live without your brother that made me leave, it's that I can't!”

There's silence as Alexander leans back, shrewd eyes considering him. Elliot sucks in a deep breath, heaves it out, tries to relax under such an exclamation.

It's incredibly hard to do; he is stressed, wants to go home.

He misses the Consulting Criminal.

“Self-defense,” Alexander notes decidedly. “You've always been a very practical man. So I trust you'll find someway to change course on your current endeavors.”

Elliot glares at him. “Is that another threat?”

Alexander's lips twitch in a faint smirk. “No, it's merely a prediction. I'm entrusting you with my brother once more, please do not let us all down, or the next time you see me, it will be the last time you see anything. Do I make myself clear?”

With that, the car pulls to a calm stop and Elliot's door is opened by the driver. Elliot doesn't move at first, just frowning at a suddenly mostly pleasant Alexander, but the conversation appears closed. Elliot feels as if nothing was resolved, but the older Holmes sibling looks at peace once again, as if he'd found what he was looking for.

Unsettled and just overall done with the whole encounter, Elliot whirls away and steps out of the car. He blinks in surprise at the restaurant in front of him, barely noticing the car pulling away.

London snatched him from his errands to eat? Elliot considers just hailing a cab and leaving altogether, letting the Consulting Criminal wait up for him for once, but the desire to see him again outweighs the petty thought. Sighing again, Elliot walks through the door.

The restaurant is dimly lit with soft lighting, decorated with fairy lights of all things. There is a delicate aroma of Italian and the faint scent of cinnamon. All the tables are shelter from each other, booths squirreled away for intentions of privacy. Elliot thinks, as he stands there in slight concern.

“Elliot!”

London stands up from his table, waving his hand, knees knocking against the leg of the table and making the cutlery rattle loudly. He doesn't pay his own fumbling any mind, clearly very excited to see him, all smiles and bright eyes. The sight makes Elliot's chest flood with warmth.

“Hi,” Elliot greets as he moves over, settling in the chair across from London.

As London takes his seat, he hisses excitedly, “They have brilliant wine here. I've taken the liberty of getting us some.”

Sure enough, Elliot already has a wine glass full of dark red liquid, and it looks so polished and good that it makes his mouth water. London urges him to have a sip, jerking his head towards it, and Elliot obliges him. As the slightly bitter, yet tangy wine flows down his throat, Elliot slips his eyes closed and hums, relaxing for the very first time that day.

“Thank you,” Elliot says softly, opening his eyes and smiling politely.

London stares with calculating eyes, fingers folded under his chin, elbows on the table. “Long day?”

“Long three days,” Elliot admits quietly.

“Oh?” London asks, genuinely curious, eyes lighting up with endless questions.

Before Elliot can say anything, the server is suddenly at the table. He looks up expectantly, only to be surprised when a plate is sat in front of him. London takes his own, nodding carelessly to the waiter, moving his wine to the side.

“You ordered for me?” Elliot sighs, half-amused and half-annoyed.

London hums quietly. “Of course. I looked over the menu and got what you would've picked. Seeing as I know your favorite foods, your eating habits, and how you eat at this time of day… I just made the simple deductions on what you'd want. Is that alright with you?”

Elliot purses his lips and looks down at his plate.

And of course, it's exactly what he would've ordered if he'd seen the menu.

They eat quietly for a bit, engrossed in their own food, and Elliot settles into the comfortable silence. He wonders if things should be awkward. After all, London had died and come back to life. The circumstances should leave them feeling awkward around each other, but Elliot is in just as much ease in the Consulting Criminal's presence as he always is.

“How's Harry?” London asks quietly.

Elliot huffs out a laugh. “How do you do that? No, wait, it's a thread in my jacket, or the way my eye twitches every thirty seconds.”

“No… you just smell of alcohol.”

“Oh.”

London frowns at him. “You could've went anywhere. Alexander would have-”

“No, he most certainly wouldn't. Besides, that's not the point. I'm just… staying over until…”

“Until?”

“I don't know,” Elliot admits quietly, shrugging. “Until I get my own place, I suppose.”

London pushes his plate away with a frown and says, “You already have one.”

Elliot takes a bite of his food, but it struggles to go down. He washes it away with some wine, keeping his gaze cast aside. “I can't.”

“You say that, but your body disagrees. You want to come back, so why don't you? It's pointless to do this; why deny yourself the comfort?”

“Precaution, I suppose. Sometimes what we want isn't always what's best for us.”

“Don't be dull, Elliot. You are not a simpleton who denies one's self of the things they want; you have always went after what you desire.”

“That's not entirely true, or else I would have jumped off that building right after you did.”

London flinches, sitting his wine glass down from where he'd sipped it. “Okay,” he sighs, looking up to meet Elliot's eyes,” “this is clearly something we can't just ignore.”

“You don't say,” Elliot quips sarcastically.

“I'm sorry, I truly am” London murmurs, just staring and watching and meaning it. “There are things I've done that deserves all of my regret, yet I've never granted one instance my remorse. For you, for this, I sincerely apologize.”

The words punch Elliot right in the chest, heavy and solid. London is sincere, that much Elliot can tell. And he's right; he doesn't really apologize, not like this, not for anyone. The genuineness of the gesture and the severity of the truth in his tone is enough to make Elliot's eyes prick with hot tears.

“I believe you,” Elliot says, because he does. “I appreciate it, I really do, but it's not enough. You can't just apologize and make it all go away. I'm not leaving to get away from you, I'm leaving to get away from you leaving again, if that makes sense.”

London huffs. “You act like I'm rushing to go through these last six months again.”

“I'm not saying you are. I'm just not afraid to face the reality of the situation. If something were to happen, and it was either me or you, it's become very clear which you'd pick. I- I can't go through that again, not ever.”

“And what would you do? If it was me or you, what would you do?”

Elliot swallows, staring down into his wine glass with burning eyes. “That's not the point.”

“How dare you sentence me to this when you would do the same? That is entirely the point.”

“It's not about you, it's me who-”

“Oh, how boring,” London snaps sharply, eyes narrowing, “the useless lie that is the “it's not you, it's me” line. Please, spare me.”

“Stop it, I'm not lying. You did what you did, but I'm creating distance because I can't handle it again. Being London Holmes’ weak point is not on my list of achievements,” Elliot growls.

“Do you think distance will save either one of us from the possible fate of having to go through this again? The odds of people forgetting what we mean to each other is highly unlikely, no matter what you do. If, for whatever reason, it becomes you or me, the distance will not save you from pain, nor will it me.”

He hates how fucking rational that argument is.

In fact, he hates everything about this conversation.

It's such shit because London is right, yet Elliot isn't wrong. This isn't some debate with one right answer, this is something they have to decide for themselves. It's their life, their choices. Elliot knew exactly what he was signing up for from the moment he had pulled the trigger to save the Consulting Criminal from the cabbie after just a few hours of knowing him.

He hadn't once regretted his decision, but he'd fooled himself into believing that the Consulting Criminal was invincible, that he had no weakness to exploit, that he wouldn't be something Elliot would have to lose.

“I wish I'd never met you.”

London goes very still. “What?”

Elliot swallows and nods. “You heard me, Holmes. I wish I hadn't ever met you. I wish I'd been disgusted by your words and your obvious fascination with me, instead of being intrigued. I should have ran when Donovan first told me about the things you did. I should have listened to everyone who warned me to stay away and stop encouraging you. I should have taken the money your brother originally offered me instead of telling him where to shove it. I wish I'd never found a home with you. I wish I never made a life with you. All of this wouldn't have ever happened if I'd just never met you.”

London stares at him for a long time, then slowly relaxes, lips curling up from where they'd tipped down. “Without me, you're life would have been so incredibly dull.”

“Full of yourself, aren't you?” Elliot snorts, shaking his head in amusement.

“Always,” London says. “I want you to be aware of the situation that we've got ahead of us if you do not wise up and come home. You will go back to Harry's, I will go back Baker Street. You will miss me, I will contact you every chance I get. You will go about your dreadful routine, I will suck you back into mine. You will try to avoid me, I will be sure to see you every single day. You will eventually get your own place, I will invade it. You will let all of this happen because you will miss me, I will not hesitate to play dirty. And if something happens that results in our weak points being exploited, whether it is ten seconds from now or ten years, it will hurt as much as it did the first time, if not more, for the both of us.”

Elliot's stomach ties itself into knots at how certain London is. He's never been wrong before and that scares Elliot. The moment of indecision and faux-protection stretches between them. They stare at each other, eyes never straying, and Elliot holds his breath until he can't anymore, letting it explode out of him and dropping his gaze.

“Holmes…” Elliot croaks, teetering between two very hard decisions.

“Furthermore,” London barrels on, voice wavering just slightly, “the option of coming home holds more merit. Things can go back to how they were if you wish, or it can be different. You can still make me tea, I can still hate your sweaters. You can still fuss over me not eating properly, I can still play my violin for you when you have trouble sleeping. You can still yell at me for being rude, or mindless, or careless, I can still roll my eyes and ignore you. All of that can happen, just as usual, or we can change it.”

“Change it?” Elliot asks, frowning.

“We can add things to our life if you'd like,” he says, voice dipping low.

"You aren't seriously doing an experiment right now.” Elliot asks dumbfounded.

“Whatever are you talking about?” London replies.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about."