In the meantime, while the geneticist worked, Sylar had taken it upon himself to try cleaning up his bookshelf a little, dust on the spines of once much loved books far too thick to see what was written on them, let alone try and take one down and read it. That done, he'd picked one of his anatomy books--not that he didn't already know the damn thing by heart already--moved over to one of the armchairs near the window, and considered his would-be seat for a moment. Then, with an idle gesture, he was stripping the chair of its plastic covering, not wanting to be bothered with having to clean that, too, and settled down in it to thumb through the book with half-hearted interest. He may not have been in the same room as Mohinder anymore, but he was more interested in listening to him work than he was actually focusing on his reading.

And that in mind, when he heard the Indian still for a moment, he presumed him done. Setting the book down in the fine snow of grime on the end table, he pulled himself to his feet, and moved towards the kitchen. He was just in time to watch Mohinder inject himself with whatever he'd made from Maya's blood and to hope that the other man didn't accidentally kill himself in a moment of misplaced zeal. This newest version of Mohinder's serum hadn't been tested as of yet, after all; it was a distinct possibility.