Shiloh & Kit: the B&B sitting room
Kit had no idea where Shiloh was housed. Or where Shiloh spent his time. He had thought about it only briefly, and then with a vague sort of uncertainty as to Shiloh's health, but it had been brief. Finding out about it wasn't necessary. Kit had a mind that closed around certain things and thought about them obsessively until he had an answer, or a resolution or he walked about thinking about them like he was in the middle of a dream. He had some idea that a man who had escaped from prison, had a very wealthy, very influential family with the ability to pervade just about anywhere with money and whose general objective was to bring that man back to prison and leave him there, might not want anyone who knew who he was, about. Self-preservation in most people would produce the same conclusion.
So he hadn't thought about it. What he had thought about was contained in a paper file somewhere in 'Club Med', filed where no one would likely look for it because there was no requesting physician elsewhere asking for it. That, and well. He'd thought about everything else he recalled of Shiloh because he wasn't a medical automaton. But he hadn't dwelled.
It was lucky (for Shiloh) that Kit even emerged from the B&B room for breakfast. He didn't always, he forgot. Sleep was something Kit fought with, occasionally won and existed in a very deep, thick state that didn't let go when he'd finished with it, and largely spent the night intermittently struggling with. He was bleary, when he emerged in a rumpled striped shirt over jeans with a ....well, it wasn't five o'clock shadow so much as early morning, and fighting all possible stereotypes of mild-mannered Scottish men (over which there was a serious question-mark when it came to Kit) he didn't want tea. He had cobbled together a disgusting cup of coffee in his room, and he had it in hand.
He stopped, about half-way into the room when it became apparent one table was occupied. "Oh. Hello." Surprised. And a little nonplussed.