At least Peter wasn't fighting it all the way, because Sylar didn't think he'd be able to wrestle him into the shower and keep him upright while he did what he needed to unless Peter was willing. It was an odd sensation, nervousness, it had been a long time since he'd felt anything like it, and this shouldn't have felt as alien as it did. It was just killing, after all, and he was good at that.

He walked backwards from the bedroom to the bathroom, parted the mildewed shower curtain and stepped back into the basin, still holding Peter's hand. The shaking was getting worse, he could see, but there was no need to keep his hands steady--this wasn't surgery, it was murder. Or was it euthanasia?

With his elbow he turned on the shower, and it took a few seconds to turn from ice cold to warm, running off them pink and sticking his clothes against him. He wrapped one arm around Peter to keep him steady, and drew the blade.

"Your body won't heal so long as the blade is inside. That's right, isn't it?" He licked his lips, dropped his head against Peter's. "Concentrate on staying conscious for as long as you can."