Virgil Watson stands at the window, curtain drawn back with one hand, as he watches Logan get into the waiting cab down below, and it drives away.

"Logan just got into a cab. He just drove away in a cab!"

Roman glances at him, pityingly. "I told you, he does that."

But Virgil isn't satisfied with that. Something's wrong, he can feel it. He watches out of the window as the taxi tutters down the street at a nice leisurely pace.

Roman turns to Remy. "He's gone off, again! Wasting our bloody time."

Virgil also has his phone to his ear. "I'm calling the phone now, the victim's. It's ringing through." He says, stepping away from the window, his stomach churning uncomfortably.

They all pause, and listen. Nothing but the clanking of the investigators.

"If it's ringing, then it's not here." Remy says, after a moment.

Virgil hangs up, and crosses to the computer on the desk. "I'll check the location again." He says, and he represses the 'Update Location' button.

"Does it matter? Does any of it?" Roman asks. He steps closer to Lestrade, and lowers his voice. Confidential. "He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down. And you're here wasting your time. All of our time."

Remy looks bleakly at him, acknowledging this as the truth.

Virgil is sitting at the computer, hand in his hair. This isn't right. Something is wrong. He glances up at the laptop screen. The clock is still spinning, spinning. The location is still updating, updating. Somewhere beyond him, Virgil can hear Remy call out to the rest of the room:

"Okay, everyone, let's pack up. We're done here."

---

The taxi rounds the corner, winding through the London streets. Logan is doing his best to map their route in his head. He keeps his eyes on the road signs as they pass them. "How did you find me?" He asks.

"Oh, I recognized you, soon as I saw ye chasin' my cab. Logan Holmes. I was warned about you." The taxi driver says. "I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff, I loved it."

Logan looks surprised. Really? Logan turns his attention to the man in the front seat momentarily. He's examining the man. He notices a small trace of shaving cream on the man's ear.

Single.

"Who would warn you about me?" He asks, trying to keep the man talking.

"There's someone out there who noticed you." The driver says, which is annoyingly unhelpful.

Logan's eyes flick over to a photograph of two children, that's clamped to the dashboard. The kids are about the ages of eight and ten, and they are sitting on a black leather couch, laughing. A woman's arm is visible wrapping around their shoulders, but the woman herself appears to be cut out of the picture, assumingly manually, after the printing of it. It's clearly an old photograph, but Logan notes that the frame it's in is fairly new.

Divorced. Estranged.

"Who?" Logan asks.

The taxi driver just continues to smile. Like he's ever going to say...

"Who would notice me?" Logan pushes.

"You're too modest, Mr. Holmes." The man says.

"I promise you, I'm not."

"You've got yourself a fan!" The man says with a laugh. "But, that's all you're going to know... in this lifetime."

---

The last of the policemen are leaving the flat, packing up their bags, and heading out with their equipment lugged over their shoulders. They're chatting amongst themselves, some discussing their frustration with their lack of progress, some grumbling about how late they ended up staying, some joking around and arranging to get drinks after work. Doors bang shut, and footsteps faint. Only Remy Lestrade loiters. He's clearly frustrated, disappointed.

"Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" He asks Virgil, who's now sitting at the desk, chin resting on his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Virgil's eyes are glazed, and unseeing, even though they're directed at the carpet.

"You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years." Remy says. "And no, I don't."

Virgil looks up at that, eyes flitting up to look at the inspector, who's standing by the door, leaning against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other and his arms folded across his chest. The DI, because of his status, doesn't wear a uniform like the rest of the officers. Remy's leather jacket is zipped up, almost covering his police badge that hangs around his neck like a tarnished participation medal. Virgil pops his jaw out a bit, biting lightly on the inside of his cheek. "Why do you put up with him?"

Remy stands up straight, and his hands throw themselves outward to either side of the inspector's torso as he strides to the door, suddenly heated. "Because I'm fucking desperate, that's why!" He pulls open the door to the flat violently, before hesitating. He stands there, facing away from Virgil, who has his eyes on him, for a bit. Eventually, he sighs, and looks back over his shoulder, ready with the truth this time. "Because-- Because Logan Holmes is a great man. And I think that one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

And with that, he leaves, closing the door behind him, and leaving Virgil alone in the flat. Virgil watches after him for a moment, and hears the sound of the final police car driving away down Baker Street, and then Virgil turns his attention to the rest of Logan's flat. His flat. It's both of theirs now, he supposes. It still hasn't quite hit home with him that he's going to live there. That's not really unfair to expect, though, because Logan made that decision for him, and immediately afterward he'd been reeled into this mess.

He wonders where his supposed flatmate is, anyway. Not that he should particularly care. He hardly knows this man, and he clearly hadn't wanted Virgil coming with him to wherever he's headed. Which is perfectly fine, he's not obligated to take a near stranger anywhere, nor has to tell him where he's off to at any given moment. That's normal. But, even so, Virgil's stomach is uneasy.

Virgil can feel the beginnings of a migraine working its way to the front of his head, and he winces. He stands, trying to ignore how the muscles in his body seem to want to tug him toward the door, and instead heads for the kitchen. On his way, Virgil starts putting the flat back together, tucking books onto shelves and papers back into folders, and dishes back into overhead cupboards, and the beaker of eyeballs back into the microwave.

What Virgil fails to see, though, is that one the desk, the laptop screen shifts from 'Your phone will be located in: 30 secs.' which it had been stuck at for some time, to: 'Your phone has been located.'

The image on screen changes, pixels turning over. In the kitchen beyond, Virgil is stowing things away in the pantry, oblivious.

A map is appearing on screen...

---

The taxi is slowing to a halt, between two identical dilapidated twin buildings. The buildings are old, and they look a bit like schools, or colleges. But they're run-down, uncared for. They're dark on the inside, matching the late night sky that casts the world in shadow.

The taxi driver springs out, and is quick to round the car, opening it for Logan in a way that, under any other circumstance, might have seemed courteous.

Logan just sits there, looking up at him. His collar of his coat is flipped upward around the back of his neck, the way he likes it, and his glasses are a little spotted from the remnants of the rain that he and Virgil had been running in earlier. "Where are we?" The detective inquires, blankly.

The taxi driver's eyes spark, amused. "You know exactly where we are. You know ev'ry street 'ere in London."

Logan grits his teeth. "Roland-Kerr Further Education College." Logan says, watching as the man before him looks prideful. He isn't disappointed. "But why here?" Logan asks.

"It's open," The driver says, "the cleaners are in. Thing about bein' a cabbie, ye always know a quiet spot for a nice murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in? How?"

There's a ch-chick sound that makes the hairs on Logan's neck rise. Calmly, the taxi driver pulls a black gun from his coat pocket, and points it at Logan.

Logan looks at it, trying to look unimpressed. "Dull."

"It gets better than this, don't worry." The cabbie assures him, silver hair receding as his grin widens. He spins the gun in his hand, before tucking it back away. "I don't need this with you, though. 'Cause you'll follow me." The driver then turns, and starts to walk away, heading towards the building on the right.

That leaves Logan sitting alone in the back of the cab. He's being played, and he knows it, and he hates it. But, he just can't resist. He can't resist the way his pulse quickens, and his heart hammering against his ribs, and it feels like it's going to beat right out of his chest, like it yearns to follow the taxi driver. He can't resist the way that he feels so alive, in a situation where he's so likely to die. He can't resist a good chess game, even when he's only left with a pawn and a bishop. Because pawns and bishops can be underestimated, and when played right, against all odds, they can win you the game. Logan's never been good at losing, and with the endgame so close, he can't resist the temptation to play just a few more turns. Because he knows that if he plays his pieces right, it'll be checkmate.

He pushes himself up, and out of the car.

---

Virgil heads for the front door, the flat much tidier than it had been before. But even with the main area next to spotless, he still feels like he might be sick. Like he's missing something. But that doesn't make sense.

He's probably been in this place for too long. All of the dust has been disturbed, and with some of the discoveries that he'd made while cleaning up, Virgil wouldn't be surprised his nausea is coming from the musty air. He's decided that he should just get out for a bit, get some fresh air, buy some groceries or something. Perhaps go on a walk. He pulls on his hoodie, which lays discarded on the banister outside where he'd left it by the front door, and is about to call out to Patton to tell him that he's leaving, when he realizes that he should probably open the windows before he goes. If he's having a problem with the air in here, it's probably best that he let it air out a bit. He climbs back up the stairs and into the flat. He pushes open a couple of windows, one in the kitchen, and one in the sitting room. He heads over to the desk next, leaning over the surface to try to reach the window pane beyond. As he does, though, his elbow knocks against the open lid of Logan's laptop, sending it falling to the floor.

Virgil swears under his breath, and bends over, to pick it up and to check that the screen hasn't broken. He inspects it, and freezes when he sees that a map is open on screen, a red target symbol blinking at him expectantly.

Like a warning.

The laptop is shoved under his arm, and Virgil's heart leaps to his throat. And in a flash, his footsteps hammer down the staircase.