"Look, if you want to report it, go ahead. Stop whining about it like I should actually care."

Boone glared at Shannon where she lay on the bed, flicking through a magazine. Sometimes, she could be so shallow that he wondered why he was still here, still with her.

"You should care, Shan. This could be important."

"Not to me." She stopped to flick to the next page, and didn't look up at Boone as she talked.

"So you don't care that we probably heard someone getting murdered?"

"Do I look like I do?"

"You're not a sociopath, despite what you want me to think. You care."

"No, Boone. I don't. You shouldn't either – it's not like it was anyone you knew."

"Grow up, Shannon," Boone said, reaching for the phone. It was when they bickered like this that he could never be sure if they were truly lovers, or just step-siblings again. He flipped through the phone book, found the number and called the police station to report the scream they'd heard two nights ago – in the exact same area that was plastered with police tape today.


DC Charlie Pace was just putting his jacket on, ready to head around to the pub to drown away the memories of the day. He felt exhausted – with DI Ford running around like a lunatic, bringing in the Korean husband for no apparent reason, then leaving Jin for Charlie to baby-sit, Charlie didn't think he'd ever had a more fraught day in his life.

He'd managed to settle Jin in one of the nicer interview rooms, and he'd called in a favour from a mate in Manchester, so there was a translator going to be here first thing tomorrow morning. Charlie was looking forward to it, actually – it'd be nice to see a friendly face, and faces didn't come much friendlier than Desmond's. He missed the old team from the station in Manchester already.

He'd no sooner managed to get Jin comfortable than he had to handle a phone call from some elite-sounding kid, saying he'd heard a scream near the murder scene a few nights ago. Charlie had taken the details down, along with Boone's phone number. Might be nothing. Could be something.

He wrapped a scarf around his neck, picked up his notes for Sawyer, then started to walk quietly up the corridor towards Sawyer's office. He used to walk normally up here but Sawyer seemed to have some sort of supernatural power that allowed him to hear and be ready whenever someone was coming to see him.

He knocked on the door and waited for the rough bark of Sawyer's 'come in!' that followed soon after.

The office was messy, naturally; cigarette smoke wound up lazily from the full ashtray, cups of cool coffee lay abandoned on the desk, there was paperwork on the floor, a dead plant on the window still, and a half-eaten sandwich on the desk. Charlie mentally reminded himself to clear it up for Sawyer at some point; this place was probably a health hazard.

"Sir? Notes on the case." He walked in and placed a scribbled post-it on the desk. Sawyer glanced at it sceptically. Alright, so Charlie supposed that calling a single post-it 'notes' was a slight exaggeration. Still, Sawyer should've been grateful that Charlie had written anything down at all, right? He was technically off duty right now, and had been for at least an hour. He sighed. "There was a phone call – someone phoned from the area, said he heard a scream at about 2am two nights ago. I've got DC Littleton to hunt around and see if she can find any other potential witnesses."

"Why couldn't you have done it?" Sawyer asked, frowning.

Charlie froze and frowned too. He'd been trying to be helpful, but… Fuck. He'd screwed up already, hadn't he? Brilliant way to make a good impression on the boss.

Sawyer grinned suddenly, the stern impression vanishing. He waved away the panicked look on Charlie's face. "Relax, alright? If I was pissed at you, I'd be yelling by now. Thanks for staying late."

Charlie smiled, and felt (some of) the tension leaving him. "It's no problem, sir."

"You're going to the bar?" Sawyer asked.

"Yeah."

"Wait two seconds and I'll come with you. I need a drink."

Charlie agreed, but he made a mental note not to have more than one drink. He didn't want to make a fool out of himself in front of a Detective Inspector (and especially not one with a smile like that).


The following morning, Sawyer nursed a hangover as he sank into his chair in his office. He'd definitely had one (or two, or three, or four) too many to drink last night. Now he had to deal with a murder investigation, a foreign husband, and Charlie smirking at him every time he passed by the front desk.

He could vaguely remember slapping Charlie on the back (he hoped it was the back in any case, though he had the sneaking suspicion that it might have been slightly lower) and instructing him to call him Sawyie, not sir.

He looked out of the window, and then down at the post-it in his hand. He'd found it, along with a glass of water and two pain-killers, sitting on his desk this morning.

'For your head DI 'Sawyie'. Hope you're feeling okay!' was written in Charlie's nearly illegible hand writing. In the corner of the note sat a crudely drawn smiley face.

Sawyer smiled, reluctantly, and tucked the post-it into his shirt pocket. He'd already downed the pills and was just waiting for them to take effect.

The phone rang, too loud – it felt as if it was drilling into his head. He snatched at it and barked into the receiver, "Yes?"

"Sorry, sir," Charlie said; Sawyer could hear the way he was smiling just through his voice. Sadistic bastard. "The translator's arrived. Will you be okay attending? I can do it if you want."

Sawyer scowled now, convinced that Charlie was patronising him. He supposed that, really, he ought to just be glad that Charlie was calling him 'sir' again. "I'll be fine."

"Right. Good. Brilliant. He's out in reception."

Sawyer hung up without replying.


Desmond looked around the reception, mentally comparing it to the Manchester station. Naturally, it didn't even nearly match the standards, but that was to be expected. He was patriotic about the places he worked in. Manchester was good, and the first place he'd worked in – Gayfields in Edinburgh – would always be nostalgically painted gold within his memory.

It was good to see Charlie again, though. They'd only worked together for a few months, with Desmond coming to Manchester just as Charlie was planning his move down here. Still, that had been enough for them to share a few nights out and several drunken fumbles.

Charlie placed down the phone and smiled from where he was sitting behind the reception desk. "DI Ford's just coming along." He paused and shrugged. "Actually, I'm not too sure. He seemed to think the politest way to end the conversation was to hang up on me."

"He's an individual character then, I take it?"

"Yeah. An individual character with a massive hangover. Had a little too much to drink last night."

Desmond nodded. "Ah. Were the two of you out drinking, then?"

"He was out drinking. I was out having a drink. There's a significant difference."

"There is?"

"Yeah. I don't wind up downing painkillers the next day."

"There is that." Desmond smiled, but stood up as he heard footsteps coming down the corridor towards them.

Sawyer appeared, and he looked exactly as Desmond had expected. Tired, harassed, wearing yesterday's shirt. He was a little younger, a lot better looking, but Desmond could still keep his faith in his ability to estimate people, to read them.

Charlie caught Sawyer's eye then gestured towards Desmond. "This is Desmond Hume. He's the translator." Desmond smiled, but didn't receive one in return. They shook hands, and it felt like Sawyer was trying to crush his bones. "Des, this is DI Ford. He's working the case."

Sawyer looked irritated with the introduction. "Charlie, shut up," he snapped, before he turned to walk towards the stairs.

Charlie shook his head, and stood up. "Good luck," he said to Desmond, with a half-mocking, half-pitying smile.

Desmond nodded, knowing that he'd almost definitely need it.


Sawyer opened the door to the interview room, and knew that this was going to be awful. Jin had been kept in here, without a clue what was happening, for over twelve hours. He was going to be pissed off. Extremely pissed off.

The second Sawyer and Desmond stepped into the room, an angry burst of Korean hit them. Each sentence sounded like gunfire to Sawyer, increasing his headache. Two rounds of the foreign language started as Desmond joined in.

Sawyer sat down in the seat opposite Jin, leaving the spare one for Desmond to sit in. "Tell him we found a body, murdered. We think it's his wife."

Desmond seemed stunned by how blunt that was, but screw him. He was just the translator – therefore, he could translate it into something softer if he wanted to. How the hell did some hairy guy with a dumb accent learn Korean anyhow?

He decided that he didn't care and just wanted to outlaw the language entirely after Jin immediately started yelling.

Desmond looked to him. "I don't think he's taking the news well. He doesn't believe you."

"Tell him he's gotta ID the body after this, so he can check for himself. In the meantime, we've got some questions," Sawyer said, trying not to be put off by the way Desmond had started translating by the time he'd reached the word 'ID'. It was disorienting. "Firstly, when was the last time he saw his wife?"

An exchange of Korean took place, with a considerably quieter Jin, and he finally got his answer. "Three nights ago, now. He was supposed to pick her up after work, but she never showed up."

Sawyer looked down for a second. "Why didn't he report it immediately?"

As Desmond started to translate again, Sawyer sighed – this was taking too long, and hurting his head too much.

"She's an adult. He knew you wouldn't take it seriously after just two days."

Sawyer nodded, and wrote that down on the pad of paper he had with him. There was going to be a taped recording of the interview anyway, but it was easier for him to gather his thoughts on paper.

"There was a room in his house that I couldn't get into. Ask him what it is."

That should've been a simple enough question to answer, but as soon as Desmond asked, Jin started yelling, like his voice was actually trying to attack Sawyer's head. Desmond quickly joined in too, hands in front of him as he tried to calm Jin down.

Sawyer groaned. "What's going on?"

"He's a wee bit pissed at you, brother."

"I can see that. Why?"

"He wants to know if he's a suspect. Come on, Ford. Wasn't exactly sensitive of you to start the questioning right after telling him his wife's dead. Give him a break."

Sawyer supposed he had a point, but he resented it all the same. He hated having to deal with people in his job. He wasn't anti-social, but he seemed to lack the skills required to put someone at ease, unless he was focusing on it while trying to worm the information out of a suspect. He just antagonised them.

He gave up, for now, but he'd have to question the guy eventually. "Alright, we'll stop. Take him along to the morgue, get the body IDed."

He stood up and left the room, before Desmond could mention that he didn't actually know where the morgue was.