Sylar straightened up, regaining his usual composure after a moment of heart-stopping hatred. Mohinder had no idea what had gone on for the past few years, he reminded himself. The doctor couldn't possibly have realized that Sylar had stopped killing long ago.
He sighed, bouncing softly on the foot of Mohinder's mattress, awaiting the inevitable assault of fists. He didn't deserve to be humored, he agreed. There just too much rage bottled up in poor Suresh, and Sylar would be more than happy to be his punching bag for a short time. "Okay," He whispered confidently, "have at me, then."
Mohinder's eyebrows raised in shock and he pulled himself upright, no longer restrained by telekinesis. "What the hell is wrong with you?" He asked, visibly calming down as each moment ticked by.
"Besides the obvious, you mean?" Sylar chuckled. He smirked annoyingly, but began to frown when he noticed Mohinder's breath catching in his throat. The geneticist promptly lurched over in pain as his heart skittered off-beat. He groaned prettily, falling to the floor when blood webbed it's way through his light cotton shirt.
The injury from two nights ago had split open, Sylar knew. He rushed to Mohinder's side, lying him out on the floor like a fleshy paper-doll. His pale fingers hovered over the collared shirt, unbuttoning it slowly to observe the wrappings underneath.
The bandages were completely soaked through with crimson and the smell of blood brought back memories for Sylar. Memories he both feared and longed for at once. He unfurled the stained gauze, his eyes lingering around the angry red gash on Mohinder's dark skin.
Mohinder's eyes fluttered open grudgingly. He found himself lying on the floor of his bedroom, with Sylar standing over him. Panicking, he willed his arms move, but they wouldn't listen. His chestnut eyes met the taller man's concerned stare.
"Don't try to move," Sylar muttered, concentrating very hard, "I don't want you to lose any more blood."
"Blood? What happened?" Mohinder asked, groggily, his eyes flicking around the room.
Scowling at the doctor's obvious ignorance, Sylar pulled out a needle and a spool of shining translucent thread. "You tried to commit suicide a few days ago." He grumbled, threading the needle nimbly. A flick of his fingers drew a syringe of anesthetics into the room and he plunged it smoothly into Mohinder's arm. With that, he set to work sewing the Indian's marred skin back together.
"Wha- What?" Mohinder gasped, beginning to feel extremely light-headed, his skin buzzing numbly. Sylar looked down at him sadly and began to tell the story of the past four years, explaining to Mohinder that he must have finally recovered from the shock of losing his family twice.
Of course, he mentioned nothing of his own interests, not even bothering to explain why he had taken care of the mentally-ill man. But thankfully, it wasn't necessary. The doctor was far too lethargic from the drugs and simply listened to the long, sad story of his own life intently.
Once Suresh was successfully sewn up, Sylar offered him a hand and helped him stay steady with telekinesis. By this point, Mohinder was quite dumbfounded. The paranoid part of his mind screamed at him, telling him that these were lies. That Sylar was tricking him once again.
Mohinder contemplated this possibility and decided that there was an easy way to separate fact from fiction. "Would you mind bringing me this week's newspaper?" He asked, slyly.
Sylar couldn't help but smile. He trotted obediently into the living room and returned with a thick stack of printed paper in hand. He silently thanked the God that he had long abandoned for bringing his Mohinder back. There would be many more challenges ahead, Sylar knew, but he welcomed them with open arms and a smirk on his lips.
End.