CHAPTER 02
Down a dark alley, something large sniffed the figure on the ground. The way it grinned was sinister, yellowed teeth gleaming in the dim, flickering lamp light. With a low chuckle, it left a small present and melted back into the shadows.
Sherlock panted as he jogged over to Phin, who was climbing down a ladder. "Anything?"
Phin shook his head, frowning. "No. Nothing. The blood trail really does just disappear."
"I found a small patch of hair." The detective held up the hairs in question, examining them briefly before pulling out a small clear baggie and depositing them into it.
Phin had a bad feeling about letting Sherlock have the hairs, but ignored it in favour of asking the other man, "Where's the other bloke? John, right?"
"I haven't seen him since we split up. He went east from here." Sherlock ignored the fear curling in his gut and began tracing John's footsteps.
It took all of ten minutes to find a body lying on the ground, half-hidden behind a skip. It took only a second for Sherlock's heart to start pounding.
"John!"
He rushed over, examining his lover and gagging at the pungent, gross smell permeating the area.
John groaned as the detective gently shook him, hissing at the pain emanating from the back of his head. "Ow, ow, ow! Oh god, ow. Christ." He blearily looked around. "Sh-sherlock?"
"Yes, John, I'm right here. Look at me." He pulled out a small torch, turning it on and shining it into John's eyes. His pupils weren't at different dilations but that only assuaged Sherlock's fears some. He turned the blond's head gently, examining the still sluggishly bleeding head wound. Some of the blood had already dried, leaving a matted mess around the wound.
Phin stared, heart pounding. The smell was all around him and he felt small and hunted. This was a powerful male wolf that had done this.
It made his stomach churn.
What have I gotten into?
John protested weakly when Sherlock picked him up before he noticed what he was gripping in his left hand. He yelped, wanting to drop them but unwilling to contaminate them with whatever might be on the ground.
Damn you, Sherlock.
"Sherlock."
The detective looked at John's proffered hand, fascinated by the clean cut. Within his lover's grasp were three different fingers, very obviously from different people. He said, "Hold them, John. I'll take them once we get you in a cab and on the way home."
Phin was staring at his phone.
Same as he had been for the past hour.
Sherlock glanced over at him from the kitchen, where he was examining the fingers. His eyes slid over to John, who was asleep on the sofa, hair and wound cleaned, clothes changed, and bandaged up.
Turning his gaze back to his fingers, he said, "Staring at it won't make her call."
Phin blinked and finally looked up from the mobile. "Wot?"
"Staring at it won't make her call," he repeated, slower and with more emphasis. He disliked having to repeat himself.
Phin sighed, and then scowled at himself for doing so. "Yeah, well…three weeks without contact makes me…" The "concerned" was left unspoken.
Sherlock blinked. "Perhaps she's fighting crime."
He looked over at Phin and then looked away, ignoring the thought that Phin was incredibly attractive.
Phin, however, stared at the pale man.
How... how could he have known about... what did he... was...
Oh. Oooh. He was being facetious.
Was he...?
What the hell happens in that man's brain...
A small smirk appeared on Sherlock's lips. "I fight crime in my own special way. Why can't your girlfriend?"
Phin thought about that. Of course she would go off and do something as stupid and needless as going back there and settling some old score.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
She's dead. Or she's gotten hurt. Her head's lying in a gutter somewhere. She's-
Ugh, just calm down. Fucking hell. You're going to end up just like your granddad...
A mumble of something like, "Oh, fuck all this shit..." came from John, drawing Sherlock's attention. He set the fingers down and removed his gloves before making his way over.
Phin crushed his fag in a small glass... thing... and made his way over.
John looked up blearily at Sherlock and the...Phin, that was his name.
"You're hot," he blurted. Then he groaned in embarrassment, ears turning red as he turned and buried his face in the pillow.
Sherlock's lips twitched, blue eyes darting over to see Phin's reaction.
"Thanks," Phin said, with a tiny smile more to indicate amusement than agreement. It was certainly not the first time disoriented men had spewed confessions to him in odd situations.
Whatever.
He did find the way the smaller man was so quick to blush and turn away sort of...
What? Endearing? Something like that.
He did remind him of Garrett.
Oh. Right. Garrett.
"Uhm, one moment..."
Phin walked back to his mobile and began typing out a message.
Sherlock pecked John on the jaw, chuckling when John further burrowed into the sofa, trying to hide.
"John, come out. Sarah told me to change your bandages when you woke, so you could tell me what to do."
John whinged but sat up. He glanced at Phin and his cheeks and nose flushed with a light rose colour. He looked away quickly.
doing fine. flat mates barmy & camp. flat big, nice, no complaints save for murders and possible ww's. call tomorrow, explain later. don't worry. & don't let al near floo. really. -phin
He hit send and dropped the phone back onto the sofa. He was exhausted. What the hell was the time? He hadn't even put his luggage in his room...
Soon John's head was cleaned and bandaged again, tufts of dark blonde hair sticking up.
John yawned. "What happened?"
Sherlock told him a brief summary of what had happened, showing his lover the fingers that now sat in the fridge and the dog hairs in the vial, both of which he would take to St. Bartholomew's Hospital the next morning for analysis.
"You stay here and help Phin move in."
John nodded, closing his eyes and slumping on to the sofa.
Phin woke up suddenly from a strange dream the next morning. He ran his fingers through his thoroughly bedraggled hair and stumbled from the bed. The single bed. Without the familiar warm spot just to his right.
He checked his mobile again.
Nothing.
Fuck.
Stretching and yawning, Phin made his way to the small kitchen. Nobody seemed to be home. He opened the refrigerator. Maybe he'd make some eggs or some-
BLOODY FUCKING HELL THAT WAS A HEAD.
Phin slammed the door shut and stood with his back pressed against it, panting.
WOT. THE. FUCK. WAS. THAT.
He whirled around and tore open the door again.
Yes. It was indeed a head. A human. Head. Right where his eggs should have been.
He closed the door, suddenly not feeling hungry. Instead, he pulled up a chair at the tiny, cluttered kitchen table and grabbed the paper lying there.
MAN DEAD IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE AFTER VICIOUS DOG ATTACK...
Oh. Right. That.
Someone should probably do something about that.
John, in a worn grey tee, pajamas, and a robe, shuffled into the kitchen. One look at Phin and John sighed. "Forgot to warn you about that. Ehm, besides putting body parts in the microwave, he also tends to keep body parts in the fridge. Sorry."
He set about making some tea and toast, pulling the jam out of the fridge. "Toast? Tea?"
"Oh. Yeah. That sounds lovely."
Phin watched John go about preparing the meal and skimmed over the article, not really taking in the details.
"So... how are you feeling?"
John smiled. "As well as can be with a head injury. I'll tell you what, though: I'm incredibly glad I invested in some feather pillows. It would have sucked bollocks to sleep on a firm pillow with this." He pointed at his still bandaged head.
Bringing two cups of tea to the table and then retrieving the jam, toast, cream, and sugar, he sat at the table. He quickly fixed his tea as he liked and sipped it, licking his lips and sighing, content.
Phin smiled and accepted the tea. He sipped in silence with John for a while, only half-reading the newspaper.
"So. Sherlock's off... examining things."
"Yes, he went off to Bart's to analyze the dog hairs and the fingers."
John grimaced, thinking back on the fact that he had held severed fingers with his bare hands.
"Anyways, when you're finished we can start...well, wait, did you bring anything other than your suitcase?"
Phin snorted a bit.
"Yeah. I travel light. You said the place was furnished in your advert. That's all I needed."
He sipped his tea.
"Oh..." John shrugged. "Alright. I assume you don't need my help sorting your clothes out, so what would you like to do. We have a currently Sherlock-free flat, so we can watch whatever crap telly we'd like, or whatever. Any ideas?"
"Or, you know, we could get roaring drunk and fuck each other on every piece of furniture in the flat," Phin intoned in a bored voice.
He sipped his tea again and flipped through the papers. "Oooh, Swindon are playing the Hammers. That's going to be interesting."
"Or, you know, we could get roaring drunk and fuck each other on every piece of furniture in the flat."
John choked on his tea, coughing and spluttering.
Laughing around his coughs, the doctor said, "Well, hem, I've got plenty of alcohol stashed away. I try to hide it from Sherlock, but I'm sure he knows where it is and simply doesn't dip into it because he knows I'll move it again."
He ignored the little hope in the back of his mind that wanted Phin's words to come true.
Phin wiped the escaped tea from the article he had been skimming and grinned up at John.
"Useful information indeed... I'll keep that in mind. Hmm. Should probably go put on trousers, shouldn't I?"
And with that, Phin left the kitchen.
John almost choked again, staring wide eyed at Phin's arse.
Many, many crude things floated to the surface of his thoughts, most of them revolving around Phin, himself, sex, and grabbing that arse.
Then Sherlock came to mind, and from there a niggling idea tickled the back of his head...
No, he'd have to wait to talk to Sherlock -
John rolled his eyes at himself. I'm so stupid sometimes. He snatched his phone from the coffee table where he'd left it the night before, sending a text to Sherlock.
Almost immediately afterwards, his phone pinged.
Yes.
John smiled and sipped his tea.
Phin pulled some random clothes from his suitcase and pulled them on, storing the rest in the dresser. They barely filled up one drawer, but he didn't really care. He could use the other two drawers for... other things. Whatever that might be.
Aaah, expansion charms. Where would he be without them? Phin pulled his grandfather's old satchel from his suitcase, made sure his wand was tucked safely in the hidden slip on the outside, and flung it around his shoulders.
There. He was ready. Rumpled, unshowered, bleary-eyed, and generally disheveled, but ready.
He was already almost out the door, his arms struggling to find their way through his coatsleeves, when he stopped and yelled to John.
"Hey. Do you think Sherlock would mind if I borrowed one of his scarves? It's cold." Phin had already started to wrap it around his neck.
John sighed, texting Sherlock about the scarf. Then he stood up and walked over to Phin. "Where're you off to?"
"I dunno. To look around, see what I can find. Maybe the owner of those fingers, eh?" Phin gave John a sly grin. "I shouldn't be gone long. Unless I get knifed or something. In which case, I apologize profusely for the increase in rent. Cheers!"
Phin started to head out the door.
John nodded, going back to his and Sherlock's room.
He sighed. Now he was stuck in here alone with a head injury and nothing to do.
He checked his phone.
JW: Phin borrowed a scarf.
SH: If he gets knifed and gets blood on it, he will get me a new one.
John rolled his eyes and flopped onto the bed.
