3.3 Who Tried to Murder Whom

Five minutes til nine o'clock, that very morning. Merlin found his attention caught on that, as the train sped them on to Camelot, and a murder investigation he suspected he was meant to solve.

What had he been doing at five minutes til nine that morning, while Arthur's sister – how could he forget the black-haired beauty in skin-tight denim and stilettos, filet mignon and a mental housefront that changed – had been finding her friend lifeless. Obviously murdered, which was leagues different than something accidental.

For accidents people often wondered what they could have done differently, he was aware. A mild unsettling regret, and a vague unworded desire toward caution and deliberation, in future.

Something like murder, though, was so intentional it took all control away from bystanders as well as all blame or responsibility. An accident made a person feel, that could have happened to anyone. A murder made a person feel, that could have happened to me.

He watched Arthur from the corner of his eye. Professional in an almost stern sort of way. Likely he'd been on that run with Leon and Percival, at five minutes til nine that morning. He'd been in situations where one person had chosen to harm another, even to take their life. He had taken lives.

So had Merlin. A boatful of lives… Enemy soldiers, who were speeding towards altercation and violence. Not the same thing as Morgana's roommate, at all.

His thoughts distracted him from the approach to the city, and they'd only trundled past half a dozen or so block-sized buildings before they shuddered and scraped and jolted to a stop.

Other passengers stood and moved from their seats, down aisles in either direction, toward exits. Merlin looked outside and saw no color – no green on a ground blanketed in concrete, no blue softening the undefined gray clouds above. And the awareness of a distant thrum of compressed humanity at the back of his neck.

Big city. Like he'd never been in, before.

"You ready?" Arthur said lightly. Bag over his shoulder, blocking the aisle for Merlin's benefit, the second duffle for Merlin's use in his hand, resting on the back of the seat across from him. And he meant more than just, We're here; planning to get off anytime today, Merlin? He meant, Are you ready for this. All this.

Probably not.

Merlin slipped from his seat to the aisle, ducking into the strap Arthur released, and caught up to the person exiting ahead of them.

The Camelot station was the largest of its kind he'd ever experienced, and he was glad to have Arthur to follow. Probably if he was alone he could've figured it out like anybody else – maybe even with a psychic hint or two from confident travelers around, but it felt a little like if he started trying to glance up from the metaphorical sidewalk his psyche was focused on, he'd be overwhelmed, and lost.

Arthur walked like it never occurred to him to question, or doubt. And glanced back occasionally to be sure he and Merlin hadn't lost each other in the crowds – down the platform, up a stair, across a courtyard flanked with busy shops, past other stairs and walkways leading to other tracks – over those other tracks on an enclosed aerial tunnel that actually trembled around them when another train came rumbling in.

You okay? Still with me?

"Yeah," he said breathlessly. Past Arthur's unspoken look, he glimpsed ticket counters and glass doors and… the rest of Camelot.

Jogging down the stairs behind Arthur's smoother gait, he tried to concentrate again on job to do. He wondered what Arthur's first mission had been… because Ealdor probably didn't count as his own first mission.

Arthur turned abruptly midstep, diverting to approach a tall, thin man standing motionless in the center of the massive lobby space – tile and gilt and a great time-keeper vertical on the far wall. His dark hair showed comb-marks and the prominent knob in his throat showed shaving nicks. As he studied the travelers coming and going in a desultory way, the tails of his navy suit-coat were tucked behind his wrists by his hands in his pockets … showing a holstered handgun on his belt, next to a leather-backed nearly-square bit of brass. Knobs at the top like a crown and a code engraved at the bottom – the credentials for law enforcement.

"CCI?" Arthur said, shifting the carrying straps of his bag to his left hand, reaching for a greeting before the fellow so much as focused – startled – corroborated Arthur's guess by offering his own hand.

"Officer Nelson," he introduced himself. "You're the psychic?"

Merlin stopped in his tracks, disconcerted. Officer Nelson took him in at a belated glance – but dismissed him in favor of eyeing Arthur expectantly.

Arthur had stiffened a single degree, and dropped the handshake. "He is. Scout Emrys. I'm Pendragon."

"Oh," Nelson said blankly. Looked Merlin over more closely – more obviously – then looked again to Arthur as if explanation was required.

Arthur flashed the charming-arrogant smile he used to disarm strangers without them even realizing what he was doing. "I take after my mother."

Said so casually Merlin's heart gave a sympathetic pang.

And maybe he was actually closer to resembling Morgana because of his coloring, but-

"Oh, well," Nelson floundered a bit. "I thought you – they told me – when I asked what name I should put on the placard-"

Merlin noticed other such individuals, presumably waiting to escort passengers with whom they were not personally familiar, carrying large white cards with names written on in tall, bold black. George Williams. Biggs-Crewe Inc.

"They said don't hold a placard, a good psychic will find you?" Arthur guessed, with a light humor that completely covered any true reaction or emotion – and guilt pinged in Merlin's chest that he hadn't noticed the man. "Officer Nelson, a good scout can do the same."

"Yes, sir," Nelson said immediately. "Of course, sir."

Merlin wondered what Arthur's rank might translate to, in the Camelot Criminal Investigation unit. If they were supposed to be consultants, weren't they technically junior to any CCI officer?

"This isn't our usual sort of mission," Arthur said, heading toward the glass doors, taking the role of leadership. Nelson jolted into action, stretching pace to keep up and giving no indication he felt he should direct them instead. "We'll do our best, stay out of your way as much as possible."

"Oh, that's – yes, rather," Nelson said, holding the door.

Bit windy, outside. Loud, and it smelled of concrete dust and old rain-water, to Merlin.

"Trolley's this way," Arthur said like it was a question, but his step didn't hesitate.

"Ah – if you'd rather leave your bags at the Hotel Essential. Or – or CCI headquarters, even?" Nelson said, scissoring along beside Arthur, paying attention to his face instead of where he was walking. Merlin kept pace at Arthur's elbow, amused. "There's some paperwork waiting for you, there…"

"Not just yet. My sister's flat building had a lobby security officer, didn't it?" Arthur said, and even as Nelson nodded and agreed, added, "We can leave our things in his office, at least. I understand that it's fairly important to observe the scene of the incident as soon as possible, correct? More so than the person of the victim, which examination is traditionally left to the science or medical officers?"

"Body's at the precinct morgue," Nelson said, tripping on a tilted paving-stone.

The ground was wet; it had rained earlier. Merlin squinted up at the sky, hoping it wasn't going to, again. Rain droplets were still visible on the glass enclosure for the trolley stop waiting bench.

"Stills taken of the position she was found in, and so on?" Arthur said, pausing on the curb and glancing up and down the street.

No trolley in sight. Merlin eased onto the bench, his bag between his boots. A twenty-something girl was on the opposite end, strawberry blonde and flat shoes and her thumb and attention entire halfway through a novel. He couldn't see the cover; he imagined it was a Charles Gates, and grinned to himself.

"Surely the others are following protocol," Nelson returned.

"Going to try to find the guy before we do, I guess," Arthur said, with the same disarming smile. "Prove they don't need a psychic or a scout?"

"Could be a woman," Merlin spoke up, and both other men looked down at him, just as the trolley turned the corner to trundle toward their stop. "Women can commit murder, too. I think I read somewhere that poison is more likely to be a woman… or is it that when a woman wants to kill someone, she more often chooses poison?"

Nelson blinked, and turned to the trolley. Arthur gave him a quizzical look – Are you saying this because-

"When I know something for sure, I'll tell you," Merlin retorted, standing up.

Eyebrows slightly raised, Arthur made a vague gesture of surrender, turning to the approaching trolley.

Sorry. Just… sorry. On edge. First mission, in Camelot, under the watchful eyes of the First Minister himself… trying to figure out how a partnership works with you… Maybe Arthur would prefer him not to speculate or question, at all, then. Or maybe he should do more of that so the senior scout would learn when Merlin was conveying information.

Scout Emrys… That was going to take some getting used to.

He mounted the stairs behind the other two, and discovered that of the last two seats together – backs to the window behind the driver – Nelson had unapologetically arranged his long limbs on one. Arthur dropped his bag and reached for one of the balance-straps dangling from the roof; Merlin nudged his shoulder.

"You should sit," he said, indicating the seat.

Because of my knee? flashed all over Arthur's face; chagrin at the reminder, defiance at the implication.

"No," Merlin blurted. "Because – y'know – you want to discuss the case."

The embarrassment and defiance didn't dwindle. The white stone wall was tall and thick, stiff with offended dignity, because scouts weren't supposed to be that easy to read. Arthur shrugged like it didn't matter one way or the other, and collapsed into the seat.

"So what's protocol?" he said to Nelson.

"You'll be given a file with a compilation of all evidence gathered when we reach headquarters," Nelson said. "I'll be given updates as the case progresses, which I'll refer to you. And if you discover relevant details we've missed, I'll convey that information to my superiors."

Arthur's mouth twisted slightly, and Merlin read dissatisfaction without even trying. The trolley lurched into motion and Merlin belated grabbed for a balance-strap, planting his boots and checking to see that neither he nor his shoulder-bag was being inadvertently rude to anyone around. Also making sure no one was paying them too much attention, listening in, even with idle curiosity.

All good.

"D'you have a suspect or two in mind?" Arthur said. "What could you tell from the rest of the scene? Any working theories?"

Nelson contemplated Arthur for a moment, mouth dropped open slightly. Not an imaginative man, Merlin thought – and would that be more helpful or less, in a criminal investigator?

"No immediate suspects were apparent," he said. "No enemies, no exes, no one stood to gain in any obvious way by her death. Not in money-"

"Position?" Arthur interrupted. "At work?" Nelson shook his head as if they'd already thought of it and asked; Arthur didn't look surprised or disappointed. Just… professional.

What'll they do when they realize you're not where they left you… It's not really a question of how do we get in...

"Love?" Merlin said, and once again they both looked at him. "Jealousy? Maybe not an angry ex, but someone… current? Someone connected to someone current?"

"No boyfriend the roommate was aware of," Nelson said dubiously to Arthur. "I mean – your sister. But… we can… have someone track that down?"

Merlin sighed. Was he supposed to limit his brain function to psychic input, only? That way no one assumed his intellectual attempts were just… the same as anyone else's. Was he supposed to dive deep into everyone and everything they encountered in the course of investigation, just in case?

"The poison," Arthur said, after their second stop to shift passengers on and off, and Merlin had declined to sit in favor of a tired-looking woman in the company of three teenagers. Two giggly girls and a quiet boy. "Delivery system?"

"Ingested," Nelson said. "Otherwise, still under investigation when I was sent to fetch you."

Arthur made a neutral noise, eyes focused out the opposite window, past Merlin. That thinking look, again.

Well, I wouldn't know the first place to begin, in a murder investigation. And if scouting isn't so dissimilar, I've got a lot to learn…

He did think about the situation too, as the trolley trundled through three more stops, every other block or so, and an occasional maneuver involving another vehicle. Quite a few turf-bikes whizzed around them, though not so many trucks as Merlin expected to see – unless this was a residential district, or deliveries were made during slower nighttime hours, or both.

Three to four stories, most of the buildings. Glass trolley shelters with advertisements plastered on, an occasional droopy tree in a tiny square of earth surrounded by concrete. Fire escapes and garbage bins visible down the alleys that made him think of meeting Nimueh behind the Sunrise.

"Have you been at the scene, then?" Arthur said idly. And for a brief moment his gaze flicked sideways to meet Merlin's.

Are you suggesting that I… that we bypass the questions and I just…

"No, not I myself," Nelson apologized. "They sent me to you from headquarters. I generally… handle the public? The people involved, not the… details and evidence of the investigation."

Merlin thought, oh of course and wonder if they gave us this guy on purpose to distance us, at the same time. He couldn't tell what Arthur was thinking.

His partner made a pleasant noise. "Then we'll all be new on the scene, won't we? A whole lot of first-timers together."

"Rather," Nelson managed, blinking.

And then it was apparently their stop. Nelson scrambled up moments after Arthur rose smoothly and leaned into the shoulder strap of his bag.

"Cooke Street," he said, moving forward even as the trolley slowed. "Right?"

"Ah – yes! Yes, sir, right you are…"

Merlin adjusted the weight of his own bag and followed. Probably Arthur had been here before, right?

Down the stair to the pavement. A raindrop hit Merlin's cheekbone just as he looked up at the edifice – carved sandstone, window ledges wide enough to sit on and dangle one's legs over. Five stories – six?

"Merlin," Arthur said, gaining his attention back to the glass door he leaned on to keep open – Nelson was already inside.

Up two steps. Am I supposed to be doing anything, yet?

"Scouts Emrys and Pendragon, Psych Ops," Nelson was saying to two men loitering in each other's company. One was a very large man with a scar and a sneer in a tailored suit, and the other was a soft-looking older man in a black-navy security uniform.

"The cavalry," the big man with the scar drawled sarcastically, hands on hips to show off the badge and the holstered gun; Merlin bit his lip to keep from smiling with inappropriate humor. It was a scout mindset to conceal the credentials, he thought; everyone else seemed to want to show theirs off.

"No," Arthur said. Charming smile, even as he parried the insult. "The intelligence. That's what Psychological Operations means… Look after our luggage for a minute, will you?"

He gave his bag a toss through an open doorway directly on the right – an office, Merlin guessed by the furniture, small and – oh, security. Of course. Merlin set his down more surreptitiously in the doorway.

"Scout Pendragon," said the older man, with a twitch of a salute. He mopped his brow briefly with his cuff. "Scout Emrys. I was told to send you straight on up…"

Tile on the floor, alternating dark green and cream that shared each other's flecks. Merlin assumed the flats were to either side of the narrow lobby, down halls and maybe around corners to the rear. Front units the priciest from having the best view, maybe. He followed Arthur up three stairs, past a bank of brass-fronted mailboxes to the lift.

"Nelson?" Arthur said expectantly, appropriating one corner of the compartment. Merlin stepped in beside him, holding the door open.

Nelson interrupted whatever he was saying to the inspector with the scar and stared at them for a second before organizing his gangly limbs to hurry and join them. "Yes, of course – sorry. I wondered if the file was being held at headquarters, if they thought you'd head there to be briefed before coming to the scene."

To the field.

Merlin snorted at Arthur's thought, and Pendragon shot him a look of shared amusement, as if he hadn't noticed that he didn't voice the quip aloud – or as if he didn't much care that Merlin had caught it.

"Morgana's not still here, is she?" he said, tipping a glance upward as Nelson punched the #5 button – the top floor, and the lift shuddered into rising.

"No. Taken to the Essential. She's being looked after, there. Your father with her."

"Good," Arthur said, and the humor dropped away as they rose. Scout Pendragon.

Merlin wondered how long before his friends noticed when he put on a professional look. How long before he had a professional look to put on.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Security recorder in the lobby?" Arthur said, as they passed the third floor.

"Yessir," Nelson corroborated, bobbing his head. "Recordings being reviewed by a technician at headquarters. Nothing significant I've been made aware of."

Arthur grunted, trying to ignore Merlin fidgeting in the front corner of the lift. Untried and untested, Gaius had said of him, even after their scrutiny of the training recordings made of the psychic as a child. After Ealdor, and the unauthorized foray into Essetir.

I'll let you know when I need you would be a little rude to say. A little demeaning, maybe.

Arthur knew that Merlin read people like they were houses in a neighborhood and he was on the sidewalk. Meant, he could tell about as much as Arthur could about any given person in the vicinity unless he was trying. Meant he had to know someone well to read them without the physical proximity.

Like Gwen.

But Arthur wasn't thinking about that right now.

Objects were different, he was aware, but not really of how. That collection of bits and pieces he'd witnessed on-screen hadn't bothered Merlin til he handled them with focus – the bomb parts from Urhavi hadn't, either.

But this whole building was a crime scene. And the flat itself, recent and palpable and potentially unsettling.

Arthur was struck by how still everything felt inside, when Nelson opened the door and stepped back, gesturing invitation. He ducked the bright cautionary tape first, eyeing the door-frame and the latch-and-bolt on the door itself. No sign of forced entry, as they said. Probably the lock could be picked, if neither girl had inadvertently allowed the poisoner access. If the ingested poison had been dispensed here, and not elsewhere before being transported here.

"Your lot is done with this place, then?" he said over his shoulder. Merlin followed him silently into the room, diverting left as Arthur wandered to the right.

Nelson shrugged and loitered in the open doorway. "Guess so."

Half of Arthur's attention remained on Merlin as he took in the living area of his sister's flat at a glance. Kitchen to the right, open to the rest of the space; square beige sofa under the pair of fabulous front windows. Faux fur rug under a magazine-covered glass-and-bronze coffee table that made him think of winter animals – thick dark undercoat, frosted tips – and white plastic contoured accent chairs. Fridge and stove against an exposed-brick wall, peninsula with white enamel sink, pot rack suspended from the high ceiling, smoke-black beams overhead. Abstract art on the walls, each piece large enough to need two people to carry it, and he was willing to bet expensive and Dad's money.

For the first time he wondered about Morgana's roommate. Her friends. Did she find that many girls she met were only interested in the Pendragon funds available for spending? Did she have a hard time trusting that people she met really cared about her as a person, regardless of familial identity? Or were her friends actually of the quality of Leon and Percival and-

Merlin sidled away toward the hallway opening to the left, leading to bathroom and bedrooms, presumably – Arthur headed toward the kitchen and a blue-taped outline of a body sprawled, death in absentia.

Garbage from a hitherto discretely-hidden bin had been strewn on the floor at the back of the kitchen in a way that looked methodical, to Arthur. Picked over for evidence, he guessed

Yesterday's dishes dry in the rack by the sink, including two wine glasses, black-handled steak knives upside-down. They were smudged with black powder; so was the counter itself, and the refrigerator handle. Fingerprinting dust, he figured. Nothing left on-scene to indicate they'd discovered the vehicle for the poison – probably any containers or tainted food would be bagged for the science officers in their lab.

A small puddle of dried vomit was splattered next to the blue-tape head outline, with scrape-marks indicating lab samples had been gathered. Ingested didn't get far from the kitchen – no used dishes on the counter or broken on the floor.

He kept his distance even as he studied the mess – crouched down to examine the room from that angle…

So it was fast-acting. Potent. Was that malice, then, or mercy?

Nelson ambled into the middle of the space, looking around with undisguised curiosity. "Oh," he said in a tone of discovery, leaning over to pick up one of the magazines on the coffee table – no, it was a plastic-fronted folio. "Looks like someone sent a copy of the file over, after all."

Arthur watched Merlin gaze down the hallway, unmoving.

"Do we have a vehicle for the poison?" he said to Nelson. Dried vomit on the floor didn't tell him much, and he found himself hesitating to suggest that Merlin should have a look. Unsettling. If information could be discovered in other ways…

"Breakfast shake," Nelson informed him, holding the file up as if showing Arthur a picture; he wasn't close enough to see clearly, but he was familiar with the little paperboard cartons. Morgana kept those at the manor, sometimes. "Diet mocha latte… Taken to the lab for analysis… They found the seal in the garbage…"

Arthur grunted, pushing to his feet as the investigator continued reading. Had it then occurred to anyone to question whether Morgana might be the intended victim? In which case, there might still be danger to her.

"Pinprick hole in the seal. Witness statement claims the breakfast shakes belonged to the roommate – er, your sister - but the victim occasionally helped herself. Especially after an indulgent dinner, which was… filet mignon. Wrapping in the garbage corroborates…"

"Those shakes are pretty chalky," Arthur said aloud. "They're meant to be drank as quickly as possible." He knew from experience for a variety of reasons, including curiosity and big-brother provocation, crossing boundaries. "You wouldn't notice if it tasted… off."

Merlin turned from his wordless study of the hallway, but didn't offer anything. Expression vague, he sidled into the living area toward the windows, back to the wall and crowding the corner – like he was trying to keep his distance from the whole scene. Arthur frowned; if this bothered him too much to get anything useful from it…

All right. In your own time…

He had an opposite theory to postulate, anyway.

"Where were those purchased?" Arthur said. "The breakfast shakes? Maybe we're looking less at a targeted murder and more of a widespread terrorist thing?"

Which pinged a memory, Gaius saying, Some devastating campaign a lot closer to home than we'd like to imagine possible…

Nelson made an interested, distracted noise, shuffling through the file. "Someone was going to check that out. Corner store, with the rest of the groceries… inspect the product still on the shelves… No reports of any other incidents in the neighborhood. Yet. Although-"

As he spoke, Arthur skirted the focus of the scene, keeping his boots a respectful distance from the spatters and the blue-tape outline of his sister's roommate. The name, had to get the victim's name, too; he stepped onto the winter-animal rug, already reaching to take the folio from Nelson to read it for himself.

Nelson didn't notice, absorbed in his own study of the pages.

Merlin's gaze dropped from the high exposed beams and he erupted from his corner, eyes blazing in sudden and overwhelming emotion.

Arthur barely had time to flinch and throw out a self-defensive gesture before the psychic's body rammed him and they both went down. Sprawling awkwardly and heavily on his back, he managed to shove Merlin further away toward the kitchen.

Glass splintered – but they'd missed the coffee table, coming down – and Nelson's astonished gape disappeared. His lanky body flipped around, unbalanced and falling in silent shock. Arthur felt the echo when he hit the floor squirming – fighting for breath-

The window had broken. One of the central window panes was broken, shards flung over the sofa and coffee table, glittering in the fur of the rug. What could've hit the-

"Stay down!" Merlin gasped. "Sniper!"

What the actual hell-

Arthur flipped to his belly and crawled to Nelson, who was milk-white and whimpering, his shoulder a ruin of wet-red and tattered dark suit-coat sleeve. Grande calibre. Already the investigator was beginning to go limp, eyes dilated…

"Nelson – hey," Arthur said, dragging his whole upper body over the wound. Not stiff-armed, to raise himself into the possible path of another shot, but crouched low to use weight rather than strength. "Stay with me – it's not so bad-"

This flat building was a full story above its neighbors. Two above anything across the street – further than that, he couldn't clearly remember. How far had the bullet come? What were the potential sight-lines?

In the kitchen, four stove burners ignited simultaneously. Merlin scrabbled unseen in the scattered garbage, and Arthur smelled something burning that wasn't meant to burn.

He was going to have to drag Nelson to the door, outside to the corridor. Couldn't leave him to go for help, couldn't wait for help to come to them if the shooter was waiting for that. Where was the flat comm-block? Merlin could make a connection with-

The smoke detector went off with a shriek of alarm. That would empty the building and alert the investigator and the security officer downstairs – Arthur briefly worried sniper, but this one evidently wasn't shooting randomly. They'd walked into the building – police personnel had probably been walking in and out of the building all day.

"Douglas and Moreno are on their way up," Merlin reported, sounding tense and unhappy.

What? Before he had time to form the word, Arthur understood – inspector and security – his mind supplying the image of the two men chatting in the lobby.

"How long til we've got emergency response to the fire alarm?" he demanded, trying to squeeze Nelson's blood back in his shoulder. The man moaned, weakly and reactively fighting Arthur's weight on his shattered shoulder.

Merlin's eyes went unfocused toward the air in the middle of the room. "Six and a quarter minutes."

That would do, Arthur thought. Fire and rescue. And Douglas and Moreno on their way.

But Merlin didn't refocus on their current emergency situation. As the fire alarm continued screeching its discordant alarm and voices from the hallway rose in excited clamor, the psychic remained frozen in his half-crouch, gazing at the empty corner.

Then he faced Arthur fully, intently, and cut the air in a peremptory manner, seizing Arthur's attention.

White-faced and deadly serious, he mimed the ready-aim-fire motions of a rifle, jerked two raised fingers emphatically into the air, then pointed to the interior wall of the flat – invisibly following a slow progression toward the door, but still eighteen feet shy.

Second shooter. Right there. Coming down the hall, to the open door.

Merlin's finger followed.

Blood slipped down Arthur's fingers; if he let go, Nelson might bleed out. Mostly-unconscious as he already was.

Fire alarm meant people in the hall, but the voices had receded and this was top-floor. The indulgent size of the flat meant fewer units…

Arthur extended one arm over Nelson's body, unsnapped his holster, and pulled the inspector-liaison's service weapon. Carried loaded. Blood squished in his grip as he flipped the safety catch – met Merlin's eye, followed Merlin's unhesitating finger.

Interior walls plaster-and-stud, about 40 centimetres apart, starting at the doorframe.

Breathe, brace, relax-

Pull the trigger. Eight times in quick succession, instinctive spread to allow for any body size, any direction of duck or flinch.

Deafening in the small space, even above the shrilly insistent tones of the fire alarm. Almost he didn't hear the body tumble to the industrial carpeting of the hallway. No further indication of movement.

Sniper's on the move, Merlin said.

Mark him, Arthur commanded. The fire alarm screeched on in unsettling rhythm.

Nelson's body was totally limp, but Arthur could feel the movement of breathing where he leaned over the shoulder-wound. Could feel the broken ends of bones grating together, too.

Dammit. Sorry.

Arthur rolled to his knees, keeping either hand steady, on the weapon and the wound. Shouting from the corridor echoed through the ringing in his ears and the fire alarm.

"Douglas!" he bellowed. "Moreno! Man down! I need help in here, now!"

He's dead, one of them said, unseen outside the room.

Then the scarred, cynical inspector spun around through the doorway, bracing himself with both hands on the frame, wide-eyed with shock.

"Sniper got Nelson through the window," Arthur reported shortly, discarding the discharged pistol with deliberate care. "We've got-"

"Four and a half minutes," Merlin said, on his feet.

"Til emergency response is here," Arthur continued, as Douglas – or Moreno? – lurched forward to his knees at Nelson's side. "Keep pressure here – give me that-"

The inspector replaced his hands on Nelson's shoulder, and Arthur wiped blood hastily on the winter-fur rug, then reached to unsnap the Weston from the belt holster. The older man flinched reactively, but otherwise didn't protest Arthur's appropriation of his weapon. "What are you going to do?"

For a moment Arthur considered pretending he hadn't heard the question over the hellish noise of the fire alarm. "We're going after him." Getting his feet under him, he added, "Second shooter down in the hallway?"

The security guard appeared in the doorway, looking backwards and down at the body Arthur had put there and hadn't even seen yet. "He's dead…"

All right. To be dealt with later. And no escape-and-evade for them, no disappearing to the border. This was the heart of Camelot – and there was a sniper unaccounted for.

"Moreno!" he snapped, tucking the Weston behind his belt at the small of his back, under his jacket as he strode toward the door.

"My name's Douglas," the security officer said, slightly dazed at the sight of the inspector also lying bloody on the floor.

"Meet the emergency personnel at the street and direct them up here," he ordered, slipping past the man's bulk in the doorway. "Loan me this-" He pulled a second Weston from Douglas' belt, passing it to Merlin, who followed.

Merlin performed a well-trained check of the weapon, handling it at a proper angle and assuming a moving-wary-while-armed position. His eyes were on the body bleeding into the dark-blue carpet on the corridor floor; his jaw was set and his eyes were dark and his face was white.

Hold it together, kid.

Merlin raised his eyes to Arthur's and gave him a short, firm nod.

They passed the second shooter and Arthur didn't recognize him - dark skin, contoured facial hair, on his back with one leg bent beneath him, blunt-nosed silencer on the Seize-9 three inches from an outflung hand. Bloody hells, that's a… wicked choice of handgun.

Plaster dust from the holes in the wall sifted finely through the air, and clung to Nelson's blood soaked and drying on Arthur's clothing. Good thing his jacket was slate gray and his trousers dark; they only looked wet.

Fire alarm still cutting the air with sharp and distracting edges meant he didn't need to think much at all, just function on instinct. Stairs at the end of the adjacent corridor past the lift, and he left sticky red fingerprints on the handle of the door.

Leaping down the steps three and four at a time, he slung himself around the landing to descend again. There were only a few people still trying to obey the fire alarm and he abandoned the interior handrail to pass them on the outside.

"Hey, what's-"

"-Really a fire at all?"

Merlin clattered down after him, touching more stairs but moving just as fast. He'd taken the chance to tuck the security guard's service weapon away somewhere out of sight; Arthur approved.

Ground floor. He slammed out of the stair-well and didn't slow for more people still evacuating in a desultory, ungraceful way, only shoving past anyone he couldn't dodge completely.

"Oi, watch it!"

"Bloody 'ell, wot's yer problem!"

They were down to thirty or forty seconds. He thought he could hear the sirens, but didn't pause to look for lights or distinctively-colored trucks. It might've been just the echoes his ears held from the fire alarm.

"Left!" Merlin said breathlessly as they exploded through the front door, held open by the near-constant passage of people.

Not directly across the street, then, but the building next, which was half-a-story taller. Earth-colored granite, regular windows like a flat building or office complex-

"Outside or inside?" he demanded, pounding across the street. More people were gathered on the opposite side, alerted by the sound of the fire alarm and the exodus of residents. No one was looking or pointing toward the broken window on the top floor, though.

"Inside!"

Sniper shooting from interior cover, then, rather than exposed on a rooftop. There was an alley on the far side of the building, but it shared a wall on this side. Instead of being able to hop to another building's roof, sniper would descend and exit to the rear, probably - heading instinctively away, and potentially according to a predetermined route.

"Get ahead of him!" he ordered Merlin over his shoulder, taking the three steps up to the building's entrance in one stride.

The younger man was still functioning on basic training; he hadn't yet absorbed the shock of what happened. It would suffice, Arthur believed. Merlin nodded, and darted to the alley.

Now if he could only get eyes on the sniper…

Hard-wood flooring, and his boots clattered obscenely heavy and fast, past a red-haired girl in glasses behind a desk-

"Ah, sir-"

Past an older woman turning surprised from a bank of cubby-hole mailboxes – open doorway to a utility room – open doorway to a messy-looking office with lights out – past a room with an oval conference table, warm golden oak.

Turn the corner to see a short, compact man emerging from yet another door carrying what looked like the case of a musical instrument - rectangular, hard black plastic. Light-skinned and dark-haired and clean-shaven, excessively ordinary.

The sight of Arthur surprised him – but instead of astonishment, there was wariness and preparation in the man's dark eyes. And brick dust on the elbow of his otherwise-neat dark suit-jacket.

Arthur reached to the small of his back, testing further to be certain. "Through and through, non-lethal. Fairly sloppy work, that."

And he knew what Arthur meant. No innocent bystander, this.

Even as Arthur slipped Moreno's Weston from his belt, the neatly-combed sniper twisted to reveal his own Seize-9 in his off hand. Ready-aim-fire.

Arthur spun behind the corner, chased by the outrageous slap of silenced bullets into plaster.

"What is – is that a-" the woman at the mailboxes stuttered. Astonished innocence, there. Wide-eyed at the Weston in Arthur's grip.

Down the corridor behind him a door slammed. He ducked a quick look half a metre lower than his head-height in case the sniper was using the sound of the door as a lure. No one was in sight, so he launched himself around the corner again and pounded a dozen paces down the hall to the door.

Half-glass. Arthur was careful to slide to a stop at one side of the door, Moreno's Weston ready – then ducked round to the other side. Seeing was being seen, and his opponent was armed and able, too.

It was a plain little back-entry. Rubber-edged mat for shoes to be wiped on before entering the building proper. Hooks for umbrellas or overcoats under shelves for whatever might need to be set down to momentarily free the hands.

And empty.

Arthur yanked the door open and crossed to the building's back door, keeping the solid bulk between him and the open outside. He led with the pistol, covering all points of visibility as he pushed through, alert for any motion directed at him, ears still compromised but perked for-

Running footsteps, fleeing away. The short man dressed for business-as-usual and carrying the instrument case sprinted eastward, away from him.

Arthur vaulted the handrail, three concrete steps to the ground, and landed running. No time to waste shouting warnings like, Stop where you are, CPO! And obviously don't risk wildly flying bullets. He kept his borrowed Weston pointed sideways and down, toward the juncture of the exterior building wall and the alley pavement, finger hooked around the trigger guard.

Forty paces til the back alley intersected a street, and if the sniper felt free to discharge his Seize-9 indoors without caution for bystanders, Arthur needed to end this before someone else got hurt.

At the far end of the alley, someone stepped deliberately into the open, a dark silhouette centered and blocking freedom. The sniper's shoes skittered reactively, trying to slow on wet ground, as the figure raised both arms in a stance Arthur recognized from training classes on the firing range.

"Hey!" he bellowed, making the shout a full-lunged command, so the sniper would spin to face him. Eyes here, bastard. You focus on me. "Drop the case! Toss your weapon. Get your hands in the air! Now – do it now!"

The sniper let go of the instrument case's handle; it hit the ground and tipped, rocking back against his leg before it settled. He kept his Seize-9, however, pointed at the pavement.

Arthur prowled forward, angling toward the building so if he had to shoot and miss, there'd be no danger of the bullet leaving the alley for the street – or hitting Merlin, who lowered Douglas' Weston, but not all the way. Stand-by. Pointed at the sniper's feet. In case of accidental nervous discharge. Arthur couldn't see where he'd positioned his forefinger.

"You're under arrest," Arthur told the sniper. "Camelot Psych Ops, on behalf of CCI. The inspector you hit wasn't killed, so if you cooperate now and tell us everything…"

"I can't tell you what I don't know," the man shot back. There was a flat, sinusy note in his voice, but no trace of accent Arthur could hear. Then again, it took a minute to distinguish some of them; Essetirian was like that.

"You can tell us what you do know," Arthur countered.

"Are you the psychic-" the sniper gestured with the Seize-9, just slightly, but enough for Arthur's grip and aim and instincts to tighten. "Or is he?"

What? Arthur was caught off guard for a moment, trying to rearrange theories and motives to something that made sense. Something that led logically from poison to breakfast shake to sniper-

Who yanked his Seize-9 up, and nestled the muzzle in the corner of his jaw, right up against the pulse of the carotid. Arthur hesitated, being more accustomed to adversaries who aimed at him, than at themselves.

"No!" Merlin yelled, bolting forward.

He didn't make two steps before the sniper pulled the trigger again. It was a startling dull pop, an immediate spatter on the brick wall of the opposite side of the alley, flinging head and shoulders backward in a ruin of crimson, and the sniper dropped like a discarded puppet.

Oh, bloody hells…

Merlin cursed, stumbling as he came forward, and Arthur distantly hoped he hadn't been trying to read the man, at the moment of his death. Imagine how traumatic.

"That," Merlin said, arriving beside the instrument case as Arthur moved forward. "That was... my fault, wasn't it."

Because he should have anticipated the suicidal decision? Arthur frowned. "What do you mean?"

The Weston was heavy in his hand, and he tucked it behind his belt again, moving to toe the Seize-9 out of the sniper's limp hand. Imminent danger averted, but the analysis of the unseen factors of the case would be postponed in favor of dealing with the impending legal repercussions.

"He didn't want to give anything away," Merlin said, staring down at the body. "Things he didn't know he knew, even one detail leading to another and another and another-"

"Hey," Arthur said, shouldering between Merlin and the corpse, commandeering the psychic's attention. "Calm down. Breathe. Get some distance for a minute, back in control… Do you need to step away?"

Merlin swallowed – closed his eyes – focused on Arthur. "I think I'm all right."

"Because this is it," Arthur told him seriously. "This is part of the job, too. Not just risking ourselves, but defending ourselves as necessary. Dealing with harm that comes to others in the course of the mission."

"This wasn't our fault," Merlin objected.

"Say that again," Arthur said, and he wasn't joking. "And sound like you mean it."

The blue of Merlin's eyes cleared a bit with comprehension. He didn't repeat himself, but he did offer Arthur a single determined nod.

"I'll stay here," Arthur added. "You go back round the corner, find Moreno if you can or someone from CCI who's in charge and let them know, sniper's body is back here."

Merlin nodded again, glancing downward past Arthur's knees. He began to turn away, then twisted back and crouched, hand out as if to touch the body, looking almost as if he were offering aid or assistance – c'mon gimme your hand I'll help you up… Then he straightened, with a troubled line between his brows.

"No contact with the shooter in the hall," he said. "But… this is the poisoner, Arthur. We've… we've caught the murderer."

Arthur didn't know quite how to react to that. Two wildly different M.O.s… But he was only an amateur investigator in domestic criminal activities, at best. He could translate skills and use common sense, but he'd freely admit the lessons and instincts of an experienced investigator were beyond him.

He grunted. Yet another reason he preferred his job, operating in the shadows on foreign soil. Never any legal entanglement of any sort – just slipping away, leaving the sorting of any aftermath to others to come up with whatever explanation seemed logical to them. And the debrief when he returned home, leaving the discussion of political ripples mostly to be handled by folks who were not him.

"Brace yourself for bureaucracy," he advised Merlin. "This isn't over, yet…"