Permission. That was all he needed, although to be fair he could have gone ahead and killed him without it - and had on occasion, in the past. But this was different. He knew it even as he pulled himself back to his feet and backstepped toward the door, before spinning around and jetting down the hallway. He almost went over in the lounge, turning on a dime to go through the kitchen door, and knocking drawers onto the floor to find what he needed, the sharpest knife that Peter owned.

And then he wasted two seconds staring at it, touching his thumb to the blade long enough to draw blood, preparing himself for what he was about to do.

Peter owed him.

Sylar head back to the bedroom, slipping the knife through a beltloop as he went, and stopped in the doorway, thinking logistically. There was a lot of blood in a human body, and it got everywhere; if Peter wanted to keep living here, then they'd have to contain the spill, and that meant going back to the bathroom. He stepped unblinkingly forward, and offered his hand.

"Come with me."